Stress Point
by LittleMender
Summary: Jane had returned to the fold, but Lisbon's acceptance and—he feared—her forgiveness had seemed to have found its limits, and while much was the same, it felt as if everything was different. A short series follow-up to The Substance of Things Hoped For, my tag to the Season 4 finale.
1. Chapter 1

**So, once again, I'm writing a tag to a tag, although unlike last year about this time I'm not doing it strictly for therapy. I've been a little in alt since the finale, both due to how good it was (and continues to be with each subsequent viewing) and how it colors each of the summer reruns, now knowing as I do where they're heading, for the 4****th**** season at least. I just hope I never see Erica again, however futile that thought might be.**

**Anyway, unable to wait for more story, my mind has been making up its own. So, I've written this, a weekly series ONLY for the month of June, a snapshot of how things progress during that month in the wake of Jane's return to the fold. I'm planning on a chapter each Thursday plus one Friday in the middle. This is just a bit of imaginings (and admittedly a bit of therapy) to pass some of the time until the season 5 premiere in September [insert groan here] and is by no means where a guess as to where the writers will take the show. Just my own flight of fancy. We begin with Jane's point of view.**

STRESS POINT

06.07.2012

He wasn't sure about anyone else, but he didn't know how much longer he could take this.

The thought surprised him, so completely out of context with recent events as it was, specifically that morning's interview with Lorelei—the most recent in what was becoming a lengthy series, and their first since she had been moved to the FBI's state-of-the-art holding facility a few miles outside Sacramento. He had been running over his mental notes of their conversation when the awareness that they were heading back to the CBI suddenly came to his mind's forefront and with it the startling notion that his work situation was causing him enough discomfort to pose a distraction to the ongoing tug-of-war for dominance and, so far, fruitless questioning of Red John's girl.

Jane had expected a certain amount of awkwardness at his return, if the CBI had even been willing to take him back. But the prickly discomfort between himself and his colleagues in the bullpen showed no sign of lessening even after three weeks. They worked with him well enough, like a dutifully-oiled machine. As for trust, none of them—not Grace, Rigsby or even Cho—had ever completely been able to circumvent their fear of the personal danger as well as professional liability they were certain he could cause them. Only Lisbon had progressed to the level of seeing the bigger picture he painted and knowing there was little he seemed to carelessly toss to the side that he could not fully recover, even if at the very last second.

Still, he knew they had at least become accustomed to him and the near-catastrophe-producing methods he employed, even thought of him as a friend and accorded him a satisfying level of loyalty. Now, they were guarded with him, their disapproval always simmering just below the surface, careful that he always knew that it wasn't for his own sake they had taken him back, any more than it was for _their_ own sakes that they held him at a distance. Everything for them revolved around the woman in the car with him now, driving silently back to the city, her eyes trained on the hot and dusty highway that stretched before them, slender fingers gripping the wheel. As it happened, she was at the crux of a great deal for him as well.

He had known things would be awkward with her too, that under more normal circumstances she would simply eventually absorb his absence and his deception as well as the things she knew he had done to immerse himself totally in the role he had taken on to draw out Red John. But he had also known his interaction with Lorelei would be a greater complication than they had ever faced in their acquaintance, in their relationship over the years. He had had no small difficulty in processing it himself. It was one of the reasons he had remained in the shadowed background in that first interview. He had wanted Lisbon to be seen as his partner, taking the lead, sitting in the pilot's seat. But he had known Lorelei would bring up what had transpired between them, a jab to give her the upper hand. Lisbon wouldn't be able to hide her reaction, though he knew she would remain silent, not wanting to give Lorelei the satisfaction of provoking her to such an extent as well as not knowing what to say. Lisbon would never have suspected how far he had been willing to go, and he had been unwilling to disclose that information to her himself. The darker motive—and he dreaded the day Lisbon realized it—was that any advantage Lorelei imagined herself to have would make her fall that much more decimating, her shattering that much more complete, leaving her more vulnerable to his purpose.

And Lisbon had indeed seemed to absorb and move on, even working to get him reinstated and back on her team as soon as possible. He was certain the trust was still there, at least as far as their working relationship was concerned. But her acceptance and—he feared—her forgiveness had seemed to have found its limits, and while much was the same, it felt as if everything was different.

He believed most of the problem was a matter of proximity. Lorelei had been arraigned and ordered held without bond, and they had been able to keep her at the CBI, a female guard inside her cell at all times as complement to the two sturdy sentinels just outside the door. While Jane had intentionally made certain he was never alone with her, he had tried to minimize Lisbon's contact with her, conducting interviews with each of the other team members in attendance. But Lorelei had such an extreme effect on each of them—she tried outright to seduce a repulsed Rigsby, the animosity between her and Grace and resulting near cat-fight made subtle interrogation impossible, and for some reason her mere presence infuriated Cho—that in the end Lisbon had once again been forced to come to the rescue.

Eventually, Agent Darcy had offered the use of the more secure hold, saying it was the least she could do. Lisbon had gratefully accepted the favor and graciously refrained from agreeing, in light of Darcy's epic bungling of their Red John op. Lorelei had been moved there four days previous, and at the request of the facility psychiatrist, Jane and Lisbon had given her the time to settle in before they had headed there this morning for another less than satisfying interview. Lorelei had continued to taunt them both, Jane with guarding her intimate knowledge of Red John and Lisbon with intimations of her knowledge of the consultant. On top of everything, any hopes Jane had entertained that Lisbon would be more at ease with Lorelei out of the building were dashed when her persistent aloofness had continued to prove to be the rule.

That morning, Lorelei had employed her usual methods. Jane still cringed inwardly when she invoked their brief encounter and referred to him, especially in front of Lisbon, as "Lover". What made it worse was that, in spite of her sweet demeanor, he knew it was her style to be visceral and—true to form—she had dimpled prettily before going for the throat, hinting at a few of the more intimate details. Lisbon had maintained composure admirably, but it had been apparent in their first interview that simply _not knowing_ had been enough of a chink in her armor to show Red John's girl she had then and continued now to hit her mark.

Oddly, for Jane, that had only been _one_ of the unsettling situations of the morning.

They had entered through security, Lisbon's badge and ID scrutinized, her gun secured in one of the small weapons lockers. She had lingered to exchange pleasantries with one of the guards who, it turned out, had been a seasoned beat cop when she worked in San Francisco. Jane had walked ahead, rounded the corner and encountered the facility's shrink, one Dr. Jonathan Mann. Mann was tall—Jane ascertained about six foot-two inches—and athletically slim, probably a runner. He was well proportioned, and his dark blue suit was impeccably tailored. Full brown-black hair that Jane suspected might curl if the man went more than two days off his strict barbering schedule swept back from a broad forehead, the crown to high, symmetrical cheekbones. Individual strands of silver teased at his temples, the perfect foil to his healthy, natural tan.

He recognized Jane immediately, introduced himself and offered his hand in a professional shake. Their eyes met, and the up-and-down movement of their grasp slowed and stalled as each took the measure of the other. Jane's first reaction was amusement, but when his eyes met the cool, assessing, almost cunning gaze of the psychiatrist, he knew underestimating this particular head doctor would be a mistake.

The moment was broken by Lisbon's laughter wafting toward them as she approached the corner behind him. He had turned at the sound, so rarely heard these days, to see her come into view, her head still turned to the side, still smilingly engaged with the security officer, her body relaxed, a hand raised to slide an errant chestnut strand behind one ear. Jane had suddenly felt like a man encountering a savory aroma, only then realizing how hungry he was.

He had been vaguely aware of Mann releasing his grip and stepping up to his side. Lisbon's head turned bringing her eyes to Jane's, traces of the smile lingering there. Then, her gaze swept to Mann. Jane turned to make the introductions and though the words came out smoothly enough, he mentally stalled as he watched the previously cold grey eyes warm to a more friendly depth, a soft smile of pleasant surprise quirk at the severe mouth. Mann reached for Lisbon's proffered hand with both of his and stepped closer to her.

"Agent Lisbon. So nice to finally be able to put a face with the voice. I find the telephone, while convenient, to be somewhat impersonal."

Lisbon smiled in what Jane recognized as an intentionally detached way but, he was irritated to see, made no move to extricate herself from Mann's clutch.

"Dr. Mann," she said quietly, "it's a pleasure to meet you." At that point she did finally pull her hand away then slid her fingers into her front trouser pockets. "I know it's only been four days, but have you been able to get anything useful on Lorelei yet?"

Mann took a small step forward and turned, sliding his hand under Lisbon's elbow to guide her down the hallway as he explained his findings so far, walking past Jane, leaving him to follow behind and effectively shutting him out of their conversation. Lisbon allowed him to lead her, listening intently as he explained what he had gleaned so far about his prisoner-patient's psychopathy. Their conversation, more a monologue interrupted periodically by Lisbon's apparently welcome and insightful questions, continued, Jane making note of what he felt were the few vital points as he carried on his own internal one-sided conversation.

It mostly ran along the lines of thinking Mann was an ass, condemning him as a womanizer and debating the wisdom of his being Lorelei's in-house shrink if that was the case. Moving on once he realized the psychiatrist persistently referred to her as "the subject", he wondered at Lisbon allowing Mann's obvious and unimaginative overtures and scorned the shrink's mistaking her smile for encouragement. Walking behind her as he was, he couldn't help but notice her appearance and found himself wishing she had worn her black suit instead of the grey. The black was sleek and sophisticated, professional. She was more striking in the black, but the grey's lighter color made it more revealing, outlining her form rather than veiling it.

Finally, after several turns and passing through half a dozen bolted and electronically locked checkpoint gates, they stopped in front of a heavy metal door, secured by locks and hinges that looked like something straight out of a Middle Ages dungeon. At that point, Mann and Lisbon had turned to face one another.

"Remember, you don't want to upset her. While she exhibits a certain level of anti-social behavior, we're not sure if she's purely psychotic or if she simply suffers from a complicated neurosis that affects her choices. If it's the latter and you push too hard, she'll clam up. But the former? If she cracks you may never get anything out of her."

By that time, Mann had swiped his ident and the guards within had disengaged the electronic locking mechanisms. Jane stepped between them, closer to the psychiatrist causing him to instinctively step back and Lisbon to turn at Jane's side. His hand lifted to the small of her back and without a glance at the good doctor, he escorted her into the chamber, leaving Mann behind with a "Thanks, Doc. We'll take it from here."

When the door had swung shut behind them, they both stopped to take stock of the scene before them. Lorelei was living—or rather, encased—in a glass oval, roughly eight feet high, twenty feet at its longest and ten at its widest. A well-muscled guard sat at each end, armed with gun, baton and Tazer. Jane and Lisbon had shared a round-eyed look, each mirroring the other's arched eyebrow, before they had questioned the guards on security measures. The two-man watch was in place day and night for six four-hour shifts to alleviate inattentiveness and limit the need for breaks. If a guard had to leave during his shift for any reason, he did so only after another officer arrived to take his place, badges and ID's thoroughly checked and electronically monitored. The prisoner was in view at all times except when privacy was required at a small area at the back center of her cell that was partitioned off with darkly-patterned walls, open one foot down from the ceiling. The glass turned out to be a polymer-enhanced, sound- and shatter-proof, bullet-resistant acrylic, and all meals were delivered through a double blind intake, specifically designed to prohibit verbal communication between prisoner and guards. The cell shape was to allow both sentries to see along the entire exterior of the space from their respective posts. All furnishings, with the exclusion of the mattress and sparse bed and bath linens, were made of a different acrylic, charcoal colored, molded as whole pieces, no assembled parts and attached to the floor with industrial bolts that required a special tool to remove them. During her interview of the guards, Lisbon had ignored Lorelei, who had watched the proceedings with an expression of benign amusement.

After searching him and Lisbon and checking their CBI ID's, the officers had opened the glass door and let them in, and the interview had progressed much as each one previous.

After two hours, they had taken their leave, Lisbon's shoulders visibly sagging once they cleared the steel chamber door, straightening when Mann met them just outside the observation room. Jane's hand had been at her elbow and he saw no reason to remove it. The doctor had walked along Lisbon's other side, congratulating her on her control and professionalism, Jane subtly picking up the pace. Once outside and out of sight from anyone watching from the building, Lisbon had pulled away from him making her way to her side of the vehicle.

He surreptitiously watched her as they reached the outskirts of the city, posture so rigid her back barely touched the seat, eyes forward, her whole body tensed as if for flight. Their working relationship was much as it had been in recent years, but personally Lisbon was as distant, as stiff, as when they had first started working together. Then, it had been amusing, sometimes irritating and on rare occasions baffling. Now, with all they had been through together and all they had been to each other, it just hurt. And he was as good as certain that Lorelei—her part in everything as well as his not being the one to tell Lisbon, letting her go into that interview blind—was at the heart of the barrier that stood, thick and impenetrable, between them now.

"Lisbon," he began hesitantly. "About Lorelei—"

"Not now," tight and clipped.

He wondered if that translated into "Not ever". Obviously she didn't want an explanation, but he didn't think this was one of those things he could make right with mere actions.

God. He hated Vegas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ah, Author's Notes. First of all, thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed chapter 1 of this little piece. Secondly, just as a reminder, this only "airs" on Thursdays, with one Friday installment, for the month of June. Many of you have reviewed and messaged me with your thoughts on Dr. Mann, another possible Red John plant, a romantic ending for Jane and Lisbon and the two of them cracking Lorelei. There aren't enough chapters to cover all of that, even though your many suggestions make it tempting to jump into the whirlwind. I've decided to keep it simple and just make this about what's going on mostly in Jane's and Lisbon's respective heads (and a little of what's happening in their hearts). There will be a resolution of sorts, but it won't be a romantic ending—more of what I think of as a good starting point for their journey to something more. And now . . .**

06.14.2012

Another week had passed, blessedly with only two cases landing lightly on their shoulders, easily solved but interesting enough to make the time seem to pass more quickly and keep rogue and random thoughts from troubling him too much, at least in the light of day. At night he found himself at the mercy of his mind—memories, mullings and imaginings.

Mann, Lorelei's shrink, had claimed a few rights by possession. Their witness was in his facility, so he called the shots on certain aspects, primarily on how often they could see her. Jane knew instinctively that Mann was interested in the case for several reasons: Lorelei's psychopathy proved an interesting challenge, as a member of a law enforcement agency he wanted to get to the bottom of anything that might aid in the apprehension of a serial killer, and his interest in Lisbon was keen enough that Jane suspected he was using the situation as a means to make a connection. While he held the psychiatrist in some distaste, he had to admire his ingenuity. Keeping Lisbon apprised had him calling her once or twice a day. How much of it was actually helpful, he couldn't say as Lisbon only relayed those messages she felt he would find significant.

And for that he was grateful. He wanted no more strings between himself and Lorelei than were absolutely necessary. She had asked for him a few times while in CBI custody, but he never responded, wanting it made clear to anyone noticing that he was not at her beck and call and she had no claim on him. Aside from getting him closer to Red John, or so he hoped since the man himself had eluded him, he was coming to see that night with the serial killer's girl as one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Not a miscalculation. He had counted the cost, what he had been certain of and what could be guessed. But sometimes, in those moments of the night, a memory would surface. A sigh, a moan, a perceived sensation. And with it came regret so bitter it seemed to sap all of the moisture from him.

He wanted this over, to get what they could from Lorelei, move on and leave her behind. And that's why as they had approached the FBI hold for their weekly visit he had been chomping at the bit, Mann's insistence that they wait a week after their previous interview chafing at him like barbed wire under his collar. He could feel it on Lisbon, too, this wanting to be finished with Red John's girl. Even so, it had surprised him when she had been the one to end the session. Lorelei had finally, as anticipated, turned her attention to Lisbon after acting for a solid hour as if she weren't in the room. Lisbon had evenly, almost with an air of blasé, asked him if they were through and suddenly he wanted nothing more than, for that moment, to indeed be done.

They were heading down the corridor to Mann's office, the shrink having asked for a few minutes before they left. Knowing they were both on a short fuse and in such a state, Lisbon was the more diplomatic of them (as well as more likely to get as much as possible out of the smitten doctor), Jane decided to let her do the talking. Lisbon walked beside him silently, a frown of consternation pulling at her fine features. Mann didn't engage her in conversation, knowing she must need time to decompress. Being more aware of the undercurrents, among them the absentminded fidgeting of her restless fingers moving against her thighs searching for something to sort, Jane knew he must at least run interference, even in the face of this more friendly attention.

As they walked down the hall to Dr. Mann's office, Lisbon fought the urge to scratch at her skin, her physical reaction to the stress so potent it was like ants skittering under her flesh. It was the first time it had ever been her decision to end their interview with Lorelei, and sooner than ever, except for the session in which Grace had taken part. She didn't know if Jane would be disappointed or furious or just his usual stupid bland self when it came to what went on between her and Lorelei. And frankly, she didn't care.

It had taken a few hours after their first meeting for her to suspect that one of Jane's motivations for letting Lorelei drop the proverbial bomb had been strategic, to delude her into thinking that she was ahead of at least one of them in the game. Only a few minutes of consideration had seen suspicion turn to certainty. It was exactly the kind of thing he would do—throw her to the lions, confident she could fend for herself or that he could reel her back out of harm's way at the last second.

It had become obvious to her in recent weeks that this particular move had been futile, Lorelei offering no opening to turn the tables, overplaying her own strategy of broadly hinting at what had passed between the two of them the night they had slept together. Lisbon understood that while it had undoubtedly involved more than the mere mechanics of the act, the only grappling had been more for determination of dominance than pleasure or passion.

Lisbon's real and increasing frustration was over their lack of progress, which was only exacerbated by the gnawing irritation that she couldn't respond to Lorelei without sounding like a jealous woman. And the fact that she knew _Lorelei_ knew that as well just made the whole thing all the more difficult to stomach. After more than a dozen interminable interrogations, Lisbon was growing tired of watching the two of them play cat-and-cat until one of them finally decided to turn on the only mouse in the room. Today she had grown suddenly bored with Lorelei and angry with Jane, wondering why he didn't use that big brain of his to come up with some way to get the woman to shut up about it that didn't include her divesting one of the guards of their Tazer.

And to top off an already horrific morning, Mann wanted to chat. She could feel Jane's eyes on her, his hand hovering at her back, and knew he was in protective mode. She could protect herself from Mann. When she realized she was trying to decide which one of them she wanted to punch, she tried to cool her temper and quell the full-on seethe she was nursing.

The psychiatrist opened the door to his well-appointed office with a gallant gesture, and Jane—true to form—guided her over the threshold with his hand at the small of her back. She ignored Mann's silent invitation toward the intimate group of chairs to one side of the room and opted instead for the less comfortable seats directly across from his desk chair. Jane followed suit, pulling his seat closer to hers as he lowered himself into the vinyl-clad chrome, crossing his legs at the knees and angling his upper body toward her. Mann eyed them, the fingers of his extended hand slowly curling into a loose fist as he considered his next move. He circled around and behind his desk, but before Jane could congratulate himself on the check, Mann took hold of his chair and wheeled it into position at Lisbon's other side, forcing her to turn and face him. Jane was struck again, seeing the doctor from Lisbon's perspective as he was, by the attractiveness of Mann's appearance. Long and elegant, comfortable with his identity and body, healthy and available. He crossed his legs, ankle over knee, opened a file and cradled it in his lap as he flipped through the pages. When he slipped on a pair of reading glasses, it irked Jane further that they only added to his appeal.

"First, let me say, Agent Lisbon," he said, smiling as he looked up from the folder, "I want to commend you again on your control. She's baiting you, trying to force you to play her game. Keep resisting, and she'll grow tired of it. Once that happens, I'm certain you'll start to see more satisfying results."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Doctor," she snorted, "but I was hoping you could give us something a little more concrete. Maybe something we could use to speed up the process?"

He grinned and nodded understanding before going back to skimming his notes. "I can tell you Lorelei isn't the victim of any psychosis, no evidence of mental defect or disease."

"You're kidding, right?" Lisbon asked in disbelief.

"I'm very serious. We tend to think brutality is an aberration, a psychotic glitch in human behavior. But look around you—if not around the world then in your own chosen field of work."

"Not everybody's committing murder."

"No, but it is the inclination of humanity to engage in hurtful behavior. Even friends indulge in small cruelties. They take the form of teasing or jokes, pranks, things we'll laugh about one day. We get away with them because we believe, as friends, that the behavior doesn't stem from some underlying animosity, that our friend doesn't really mean what they just said or didn't mean harm by what they just did. People like Lorelei—and I suspect Red John—do what they do because they see it as embracing their humanity at the highest level. They accept what they are and don't hide behind mores and values imposed by society. It gives them a certain autonomy, a self-perceived sovereignty in their lives. They set their own rules and form their own principles, and because most of the people around them don't do the same, because they are bound by societal protocols, it gives them a certain amount of control in the lives of the people with whom they interact. No rules. No accountability to anyone but themselves."

Lisbon mumbled something under her breath and simply shook her head when Mann asked her to repeat it, opting instead to ask a question. "How does this help us break Lorelei?"

"We have to circumvent her feeling of superiority."

This little tete-a-tete was becoming increasingly irritating to Jane, and he felt this was a good place to step in, both out of interest in developing a strategy and to remind the shrink that Lisbon already had a partner.

"And how would you suggest we go about that? If we can't respond to her baiting us, it only strengthens her position."

"Well, . . ." he replied, albeit hesitantly. "There is one thing . . ."

"And that would be?" Jane asked with exaggerated patience.

"I've been interviewing the subject daily, sometimes twice if she wants to talk," he began, his eyes never leaving the pages before him. "And she seems to have a sort of fixation on you."

"Well—" Jane began, but before he could continue, Mann cut him off, finally looking up and directly at him.

"Not you." His eyes slid to Lisbon. "You."

"Me," she snorted. Mann removed his glasses and placed them atop the folder after he laid it on the desk corner. He turned back to face her, leaning forward in his chair, bringing the conversation very much back to being between the two of them.

"During the first interview—I waited to talk to her until after I'd observed her interaction with you—I tried to draw her out, get her to talk about her past, her relationships, hoping to get a sense of how she interacts with people. She was guarded about her past, completely unwilling to talk to me about Red John, of course. Eventually, I moved on to her . . . interaction with Mr. Jane. About that she was extremely forthcoming. I asked her about the pleasure she seemed to derive from bringing up the subject to you and got a most interesting reaction."

He raised his left hand and motioned toward the outward corner of his eye. "A twitch. Slight but there. Since then, I've introduced your name—mentioning a phone conversation, your next visit—and always there's a slight stress reaction, a twitch or shrug, always accompanied by that tick."

"And?" Jane pressed.

"I think she's jealous."

"Lorelei. Jealous. Of me." Lisbon couldn't help but smirk.

"Oh, yes. Most definitely. Why would you find that hard to believe?"

"She has all the cards?"

"I don't think that's how she sees it. First, she's in _your_ custody, at your mercy to an extent. Second, she has at least three people pushing her, prying into her, not to mention a few others looking into whatever they can find out about her history. Then, there's Jane's loyalty to you."

Lisbon shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and Mann hurriedly pressed on.

"And what I'm guessing is Red John's attitude toward you."

"What would you know about that?" Jane asked sharply, annoyance with the doctor on a personal level suddenly forgotten. "What has she said?"

"Nothing outright, but her body language, facial expression, the shifting of her eyes—it all tells a story. She sees you in a way, Agent Lisbon, as the other woman. And why not?" he asked in response to their questioning looks. "Think of what you've accomplished. Red John wanted to destroy Jane, and he would have succeeded, was even willing to wait out the long run. He brutally murdered his family, threw him severely off balance and watched him rebound with a desire for vengeance. But that was only the beginning. Red John was prepared to run the game for years if that's what it took, the slower the better to a point. He would gradually humiliate him, wear him down, keep leading him along through one murder after another with no hope of achieving his objective. One roadblock after another, revelation upon revelation of his resources and power, leads found then lost, connections broken, killed under his very nose. Over time, Red John would mortify him, break him, execute his last hope until there was nothing left but suicide or capitulation, alienated from any of the good of humanity. But something came along that Red John hadn't made allowance for . . . You."

Lisbon shifted uneasily again, and Jane lowered his head, closing his eyes. Mann had to continue—Lisbon's insatiable curiosity wouldn't allow otherwise, even in the face of her discomfort. Jane knew what Mann was more than hinting at. He could only hope discretion would be added to discernment. If too much was said, it would leave him exposed and vulnerable, and he couldn't bear that—not here, not in front of this man, not in front of Lisbon. Not like this.

"You brought him into a circle of the sort of people who would otherwise never have accepted him. But they did. Because of you. You made him their co-worker, their colleague. And in time he became their friend, enjoying a measure of loyalty and intimacy he had never experienced before. Not with people he could trust out of his sight. He became part of a team, even though he never before had been a team player; even yielded—at times—to your authority, although everything in his background indicates that he would scorn the suggestion of such a thing. His personality, previously almost exclusively dissociative, took on _as_sociative traits. He had a place to go every day, a couch reserved especially for him. You took him in and didn't wait for him to fit in or expect him to conform. You accepted him largely the way he was and carved out a niche for him. Now his team would willingly suffer professional and personal injury for him, perhaps even give their lives. Even Red John can't command that kind of fidelity without payment or mental defect—Lorelei, I think, being the only exception. In a backward sort of way, Jane has more now—and has learned to _give_ more now—than ever before. And all because of you."

He stopped talking, and Jane breathed a quiet sigh of relief. All of it was true, of course, and went deeper than scratching the surface although there was much, _much_ more. He smiled at the back of Lisbon's head at the sound of her voice, high and tight.

"And how does that make me the 'other woman'? Shouldn't Red John despise me?"

"It's probably a love-hate thing," Mann replied, leaning even closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate level. "I would think it was exactly the kind of thing that would catch his attention."

Jane felt Lisbon lean away from him and closer to Mann and wondered what she was playing at, encouraging him when there was surely no more information to be gotten. As he prepared to stand, counting on Lisbon's habit of following his lead in taking their leave, he was riveted to his chair at Mann's next words.

"And what should have been the final straw, Jane ending his self-imposed celibacy with her, hasn't even broken your bond. The strain is there, yes, but Lorelei knows if she had done the same to Red John, there would be no take-backs, no grace."

Jane saw Lisbon's head turn slightly and knew from the sound of her voice that her eyes had narrowed in disbelief.

"You mean Lorelei's . . . _interaction_ with Jane was her own idea? A test of our . . . friendship?"

"Oh, no. She would never have committed such an act without Red John's specific order, probably wouldn't even have thought of it. It's just that looking back on it has to gall her. That's why she likes taunting you with it. Puts her back on top, so to speak."

Lisbon took a moment to process that then made to rise.

"But . . .," Mann said, arresting her movement, almost as an afterthought. "I don't think asking for your death was his idea."

Lisbon's weight fell back heavily into the chair. "Explain," she huffed in exasperation.

"To begin with, he would have asked for something smaller up front, just an offering to get in the door. Maybe doing something to the CBI, the system, the building. Eventually, there would have been a greater offering demanded. I would think, if he were to want Jane to bring you to him, it would be as a final sign, the last and greatest step in his induction. And it would be a toss-up on whether he wanted you dead or alive."

At that, Jane did rise suddenly, and blessedly Lisbon did the same. She thanked the doctor for his time and insights, Jane waiting behind her, hand outstretched to her, eager to be away. His irritation came back in full force when Mann walked them out.

"Agent Lisbon," the doctor said, calling her attention back to him as they approached the security entrance. "I neglected to give you my contact information at our last meeting."

"S'okay," she replied, pulling out her phone and frowning down at it as she scrolled through her contacts. "I have the facility number."

"My personal contact information." He gently took hold of the wrist of her free hand and slid a small, custom-printed business card between her fingers. With his other hand, he pointed to the fine script. "That . . . is my direct number here, and that . . . is my official cell." He stroked her wrist and rotated it to show her the backside of the card and pointed to the handwriting there. "And that . . . is a number where you can reach me any time, day or night."

She smiled up at him softly and pulled her hand away, murmuring a good-bye. Wordlessly, she and Jane walked to the SUV, Lisbon's lowered head causing her hair to fall forward, an opaque curtain shutting her face off from him. Something occurred to him for the first time, and Jane felt an uncomfortable tug in his chest. He had been gone for six months, completely absorbed in the con. He knew Lisbon had worried over him, by her own admission had lost sleep. But just as his life had gone on, albeit a false version, he hadn't realized that hers would have done the same. Lisbon was an attractive woman, noticed by men—suspects, witnesses, millionaires, shady nightclub owners, medical examiners and cops. And sometimes she noticed them back. And it was right for her to do so, to have a life. He'd always felt so before at any rate, even though he knew none of her relationship attempts would last. But here was Mann, someone who would understand and appreciate her work, who was willing to pull out all the stops, even turn a case into an opportunity to connect, who was more of what Lisbon deserved . . .

They took their seats, each of them buckling in, and Jane watched that Mona Lisa smile gently curve her lips, the one she wore when she indulged in a pleasant memory or contemplated a secret delight. She read the front of Mann's card then turned and read the back, his "any time, day or night" number.

"Dr. Mann is very handsome," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"Yes, he is," his response just as quiet.

"Intelligent, educated, polite."

"A paragon."

"Well groomed, not a single nail chewed."

"Certainly not disgusting."

"Thick, curly hair—if he were to let it grow—beautiful tan, impeccably tailored, and his glasses make him even more—"

"I think we've covered this part."

She tilted her head and raised her eyes slowly to meet his, that smile still curving her lips, and the tug tightened until he felt a distinctive ache building, the pull adding to the pressure in his lungs.

"Would it be too _intense_ and _particular_ of me to say I find him obvious to the point of creepiness?"

The pull released and the sudden deflation of pressure made him light headed.

"Not at all. I think it proves you a woman of insight and exceptional wisdom."

She chuckled and flipped the card into a cup holder then slipped the key into the ignition. Rather than turn it, however, she studied the steering wheel, her left hand sliding idly up and down her seatbelt where it pressed into her shoulder.

"The things Mann said. We could use that to—"

"Absolutely not. I forbid it." He was serious. He had known as soon as she heard what Mann had to say on the matter that sooner or later she would bring it up and that no matter how intractable he was that for her the subject would never be completely closed.

"You _forbid_?" she choked out.

"I won't play on some off-chance, twisted interest Red John might have in you."

"But if it can get us closer—"

"No. I won't bring you into this."

"I'm already in it, have been since I met you."

"This would change the game."

"But if we can catch him—"

"I told you once there are some things I'm not prepared to sacrifice."

"Glad I made the cut," she grumbled before she could stop herself.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, Lisbon turning to look at nothing out her window, Jane's palms rubbing up and down his thighs. A few beats passed then Lisbon whispered, so softly, barely stirring the anguished quiet.

"I never told you."

His hands stilled instantly, and he felt his heart hammering almost painfully inside his chest, fearful of what she might say, wanting to catch every word.

"Told me what, dear?" He didn't remember when he had first used the endearment, knew only that it came as naturally as checking the time by her wristwatch when pushing a button on his mobile was easier.

"I'm glad you're back."

Again that release, sweet relief.

"I'm glad I'm back too. I missed you."

"I missed you too."

"You look good."

She turned to face him at that, her voice both sharp and flat. "I look tired. And like I've been worrying for six months. I've got new wrinkles."

"Laugh lines."

"I wasn't laughing."

The silence fell again as they held one another's gaze, but not hurting and uncomfortable, just giving themselves time. He watched in fascination as one side of her mouth quirked into that indomitable dimple.

"As for you—" she said, turning forward and firing the ignition before checking her mirrors and pulling out of the parking spot, warming to her diatribe as they headed for home.

"You need a haircut. And a shave wouldn't hurt. How long has it been since you cleaned that suit? And you know the cleaners will wash and iron your shirts, right? Seriously, Jane. You look like crap."


	3. Chapter 3

06.21.2012

She had waited for Rigsby to leave on a lunch run, purposely demanding take-out from a popular tandoori place across town. Wayne had groused about the drive, the anticipated wait and the smell in the car on the return trip, but he wasn't inclined any more these days to rock the boat than he'd ever been. He was too caught up in the euphoria of new fatherhood, not wanting to talk or even think about their current situation. Grace, on the other hand, _needed_ to talk. Usually, she would have gone to Jane with something so out of the ordinary, Lisbon a not-so-close second. As the principals, however, they were out of the running. Rigsby could not be counted on, and that left the only other person currently working in the bullpen.

With Lisbon and Jane gone to their weekly interview with Lorelei and Wayne finally out of the way it was time for her to make her move. She stood, straightened her jacket with one firm two-fisted tug, caught Rigsby's chair as she passed and turned it, dropping into a backward straddle directly across the desk from Cho, her hands curling over the top of the chair's back. She watched him for a few minutes. He had stiffened minutely when she'd taken her seat, continued reading the file in front of him and studiously ignoring her, and finally sighed through his nose in annoyance when he realized she wasn't going anywhere. She knew he wouldn't look at her or engage until she spoke.

"You noticed anything going on between Jane and the boss?"

His gaze lifted to hers, deadpan darkening his irises to inky black. She rolled her eyes in good humor and rephrased.

"Have you noticed anything _wrong_ between Jane and the boss? Outside what's to be expected."

"He slept with a hooker."

"Cocktail waitress."

"Red John pimped her. She had sex in expectation of profit. Hooker."

His eyes dropped back to the file. Grace realized this was suddenly a touchy subject, but that didn't deter her. Her arms slid across the top of the chair back, one forearm lying atop the other, and she dropped her chin to rest on them, wide eyes gazing at him.

"I don't think it's that simple."

"It's simple. He had sex. With a hooker."

"Yeah, but it wasn't like it was really sex."

"Sex is sex, Van Pelt."

"But it wasn't _about_ the sex."

"For a man, it's pretty much always about the sex."

"Jane's not like other men."

"Jane's not like other anything. That doesn't change the fact it was sex. And he had it."

There was silent agreement that he wouldn't state the rest of his reasoning.

"Still, I think it's something more than what happened with Lorelei."

He sighed through his nose again, closed his eyes for a pained moment, shut the file folder and shoved it aside. Clasping his hands, he considered them for a moment before tapping them once against the hard surface and looking directly at her, now fully attuned to the topic.

"What are you suggesting?"

She shrugged, her lips compressed, corners drooping. "Not suggesting anything. Just wanted your input is all."

He sighed audibly this time, and Van Pelt sat up, eyes bright at his capitulation.

"Jane fakes a breakdown, starts screwing up on the job. Understandable as far as it went."

"Yeah."

"Jane takes off for Vegas in a plot to draw out Red John. Lisbon's calling him every day, texting him, keeping track, burning her way through any favors she's earned with the Nevada L.E.O.'s. He doesn't return her calls and doesn't let her in on the scheme. Sticky. But for her, still forgivable."

"I agree."

"The final piece of the plan falls into place, Jane has sex—"

He rolled his eyes at Grace's squint and curled lip.

"—engages in intercourse with a hooker who turns out to be a Red John plant . . ."

Grace tilted her head, face scrunched. "And?"

"And he doesn't tell her, lets said hooker waylay her with the information in an interview room, the whole thing caught on camera."

Grace waited as he considered.

"All of it together? Dicey. Rough. But maybe with time . . . It would take a monumental effort on Lisbon's part. And something else—groveling or his version of it—on an epic scale from Jane."

"But they could do that. Right?"

His answering smirk was harsh and bitter, and she saw what she'd seen at unguarded moments over the last six months: that hard glint of anger, cultivated by hurt and shameful embarrassment. Cho had lost two people that were important to him when Jane had left. One had returned, his measures to make his private op a success and to protect them perceived as a betrayal and lack of trust. But the other would never come back, _should_ never. Summer had been bad for Cho, returning him to behavior reminiscent of his days in the gang. It was his personal disgrace that he had been bad for her too.

"You know, Van Pelt, there's nothing so pathetic as a hopeless romantic."

"Better than a tragic one," she shot back without thinking. His barb had hit a mark. She was anything but romantic anymore.

He scowled at her angrily, and she pushed into what she knew would be hostile territory.

"Look, Cho. I know when you and Summer—"

"Don't." The one-syllable utterance sliced through words and intentions and months, past and present. She gave a small nod of understanding, and he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders, something close to the old comfort he used to feel with the team, knowing she knew what had happened and understood something of what he was feeling, what it had cost him to finally do the right thing, and that she would never talk about it, to him or anyone else.

Relieved at what she perceived to be a more friendly mutuality, she brought up the heart of her concern.

"There's something else to it, something more than—" She gestured vaguely with her left hand. "—this hooker thing. On Lisbon's part anyway. He'll never admit it, but Jane's practically turning himself inside out wanting things to smooth over. We don't have to let him off the hook yet, but there's no way we _can_ until Lisbon gets past whatever's really bothering her. They're just going through the motions for work's sake. We all are. I don't think it can go on like this for much longer."

"_You_ made it work."

She could've ignored the jab, could've responded with the same level of acid, but she chose to work the angle it gave her.

"Not well. I ended up hallucinating my treacherous son-of-a-bitch fiancé's ghost in the woods while dealing with my own psycho hooker. I'm not expecting this to have such a favorable outcome."

He looked at her a moment, cold, hard and assessing. Finally, one corner of his mouth quirked despite his fighting against it, and the dimple she had never thought to see again crimped in full force. His eyes lit with suppressed, resigned laughter.

"You know, Van Pelt? Since your life went to hell, I think I like you better."

"Since my life went to hell I think I like you better too."

He leaned toward her and lowered his voice, eyes brightening at the prospect of the hunt. "Whatever's going on with Lisbon, getting Lorelei out of the picture is key. But we need her to talk, and so far Jane's not getting anywhere with her, not without something to work with. Anything pop on a search? An arrest record or warrants? Anything at all in her history?"

"Not since the initial investigation, and we didn't get much more than her current employment records and home address then," she said dejectedly. He watched her as she struggled with what she said next. Her eyes shifted around the bullpen, and she leaned into the desk, her voice just above a whisper. "I could probably find out more if I were to use . . . other resources."

He only stared at her unblinking, and she knew he was waiting for her to get on with it.

"The FBI has facial recognition software, unlimited access to private banking records, census information, federal tax records, housing—all kinds of information our system doesn't support, and other stuff we're not even supposed to know they have."

"Which would be great if we could use the Feebs' database."

"When—" she bit back the name she had nearly uttered. "A while back, I was given some FBI access codes. For some of their back doors."

"Do I want to know?"

"You could probably guess," she answered evenly.

"Why didn't you mention it to Boss? She could've asked Darcy."

"I don't know Darcy's clearance and how much she could pull for us. And she's more by the book than Lisbon ever was. If she found out—"

"She'd cut you off."

"In a minute."

She looked at him, waiting for his approval. Luckily for her, Cho wasn't too big a fan of protocol these days.

"If you can find a trail, follow it." He continued, stalling her qualifying the possible effectiveness as well as the legality of the plan. "There may not be anything concrete, but if you can put the bits and pieces together to allow a few good guesses . . . It'll be up to Lisbon to decide what to do."

Her shoulders relaxed with relief. "Couldn't hurt, right? And it's not like we've got anything else."

"And maybe Lisbon won't think to ask how you got anything new."

She rose from the straddle, grinning, and slapped him playfully on his forearm before moving away. "Thanks, Iceman!"

Halfway back to her desk, his voice stopped her.

"Van Pelt?"

She turned to look back at him over her shoulder, a smirking question in her expression.

"On pain of death . . . don't ever call me that again."

She chuckled and eagerly reached for her computer. He let her work without interruption, fielding calls and questions so she could stay focused on the task. Thirty minutes later, her quiet "Eureka" had him looking across the room at her.

"San Francisco. She's from San Francisco. And she went by the name Lisa Morales. Can't find a birth certificate under that ID. She was working a part-time bartending job when she pretty much fell off the map . . . almost exactly three years ago."

"Three years . . ." He took a moment to process the information, and when he shifted in his chair and looked directly at her again, she knew he had made some sort of connection. "Right after Dumar Hardy."

She hummed an affirmative, already in step with his thinking. Apparently her imagination hadn't gotten the better of her when she thought she'd noticed the similarities.

"Is that all you've got?" he asked, mind back on essentials.

"I'm running employment records now. Hopefully I'll have everything together before she gets back—"

Cho's gaze shifted to the doorframe, his body tensed and on alert.

"Before who gets back from where?" Rigsby asked quizzically, balancing a take-out box with one hand, plastic bag suspended from the other.

"I'm checking on a few things for Lisbon," Van Pelt said off-handedly. "Just some odds and ends to fill in the blanks on a couple of reports." Wayne handed out their lunch orders, accepting her word, and she almost felt guilty about misleading him if not outright lying. One look at Cho firmed her resolve. Neither wanted her wasting time explaining the situation or convincing him it was a good idea. Cho's eyes shifted again, and Van Pelt felt a frisson of apprehension run down her spine at the sound of Lisbon's voice behind her.

"Anything going on?"

Van Pelt cast another look in Cho's direction, and his enigmatic expression softened to encouragement.

"I had a thought . . ."

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It had been another fruitless interview. Lisbon stepped from the elevator onto the SCU's floor not caring what anyone read into her body language, wanting only to reach the haven of her office. Instead, she bit the bullet and walked to the bullpen to check for any news or progress there. When she leaned against the doorway frame and posed the question, she barely registered the look that passed between Cho and Van Pelt before the latter turned to look over her shoulder in answer.

"I had a thought on a new angle, research into Lorelei's past. Just trying a few things."

"Such as . . .?"

"I'm pulling information, and . . ." Her right cheek lifted, crinkling her eye, and she chewed the left side of her lower lip while summoning courage to continue. "If you could wait until I've got the pieces together?"

Lisbon looked at her, considering for a moment. "You think it's worth your while to spend the time on it?"

Van Pelt responded eagerly. "I think so. I just started working on it. Probably an hour, maybe two should give me time to run the searches."

Too tired to caution her against getting her hopes up or question where the new data might come from, Lisbon simply gave her an unspoken go-ahead and turned to head for her office. Jane, her silent shadow all the while, followed for a few steps until he watched her pull her door closed behind her. He had intended to spend the rest of the day on or in the vicinity of her couch, always glad for the comfort he found in her at least allowing him to stay near. But he read the signal as she had intended it. If there was solace to be found, she would find it alone today. He redirected his steps to the break room, made a pot of tea and—desiring no other company—made his way up to his own hideaway in the attic.

An hour later, thinking he'd given her enough time, he headed down the stairs. As he neared Lisbon's door, Van Pelt, cradling her open laptop on one arm, approached from the opposite direction.

"Did you get something?" he asked.

"Not sure" she said uncertainly. He held the door for her then followed her in.

"It's not much," Grace began without her usual explanation of her methods, "but it might give you something more to work with."

Lisbon nodded her understanding and gestured an invitation to continue. At Jane's movement behind her, Van Pelt looked over her shoulder and watched him lean back into the shadowed corner of Boss's office, legs crossed at the ankles, hands digging into his pockets, head down. Knowing better than to interpret his posture and position as disinterest, she turned back to the woman waiting patiently across the desk and handed her a hardcopy of her report.

"Lorelei attended Cal State for two years as 'Lisa Morales' before dropping out. Mostly with financial aid, but little other funds. I've got no birth certificate for her with that name, nothing before the university and no other aliases."

"Her major?" Lisbon asked.

"Philosophy."

Both women ignored the snort from the other end of the room.

"Then it looks like she worked a string of dead-end jobs, waitressing in dive bars, last known employment was as a part-time bartender before she went off grid three years ago." Grace registered the shift behind her. "After leaving Cal, she lived in an apartment in the Tenderloin area, then Chinatown. Her last known address was a small studio on Larkin Street."

"From the Tenderloin to Russian Hill?" Lisbon questioned wonderingly, staring down at the paper in her hand. "That's a pretty big jump."

Lisbon looked away toward her window, unseeing, lost in thought, and Grace let her have a moment to consider, glad Jane was keeping quiet too. Finally, the boss turned back to her.

"Thanks, Van Pelt. I'll take care of it."

Grace breathed a sigh of relief. What she found may not be anything, but Lisbon had recognized the possibility it could be _something_. And Cho had been right: Lisbon knew what to do. Waiting for further insights, she knew, was pointless. If anything, Lisbon would share those with the man behind her. However, after Van Pelt made her exit and headed toward the bullpen, Lisbon's door suddenly wrenching open had her pulling up short and looking over her shoulder. Jane stepped out of the office and paused, turning back to look at the glass barrier, his eyes searching it in uncertainty. A frustrated "meh" broke his contemplating, and he headed to the men's room. Apparently, Lisbon wasn't in a sharing mood.

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It amused Jane, in a dark and twisted way, that he found himself surprised when people kept killing one another, obviously unaware that there was something much larger at stake. And so, he was momentarily perplexed when the team was called out that afternoon to cover a murder in Sacramento's heaviest vice district. This odd and otherwise naïve way of looking at things, so unlike him, was—he knew—a consequence of his consuming focus on finding the key to unlock Lorelei, or rather, that part of her that held Red John's confidence.

But, if he were to be honest with himself, the matter of Lisbon was coming to be as much a conundrum for him as their star prisoner. He had expected a freeze, pleased to see evidence of a thaw as soon as his first night back at the Bureau. Since then, Lisbon had run hot and cold, mostly the latter with intermittent bouts of Spring-warmth. Her connubial-like nagging of the week before had sounded like her old self, but as they had come closer to the next Thursday, she had reverted. Today he had realized it wasn't so much a matter of temperature but of access. Like Lorelei, Lisbon was shutting him out.

But where Lorelei sparred and rebounded, teased and taunted, lied and circumvented, Lisbon simply disengaged. He had thought, and logically so, that the one woman was the problem for the other, but he was coming to see Lorelei was merely a symptom, a complication. Something else lay at the root of Lisbon's inability to take him back—or was it to _come_ back?—to their mutual center.

Now, after agreeing the homicide could be turned over to the locals, the team had wrapped up their workday, Lisbon alone remaining, still holed up in her lair. Upon their return, Jane had taken himself first back up to the attic. However, finding the solitude disconcertingly distracting, he had eventually sought the comfort of his old leather couch in the bullpen.

He had been trying to pinpoint exactly when this elusive fracture in their relationship had taken root. The six-month leave was discounted. Though his behavior and plot had been extreme, it was still within the bounds of what Lisbon could willingly put up with. His one-night stand with Lorelei was filed in a category of its own, again as a factor of the problem, not its essence. Things had seemed fine at the church. She had been angry, of course, even incensed, her confessions rather than her language evidence of it. Even when he had called her with the newest scheme (swallowing convulsively even now at the memory), she had agreed to it with her usual combination of dread and equanimity. It was after that . . .

And at that point he had dropped off, mind and body too fatigued to struggle against the pull of sleep in the softly buzzing quiet, the glow of Lisbon's desk lamp the only illumination. Then, minutes before the witching hour and, thankfully, before his dreams took him to places he was loathe to revisit, something bumped at him. His eyelids flickered against the instinct to open, and he would have gratefully sunk back into sweet and elusive sleep, lulled by the scent of cinnamon and fabric softener.

_Bump_.

"Get up."

His thinking still sleep-fuzzed, he barely resisted an unholy urge to wrap his arm around her knees, run his palm up the back of her thigh, opting instead for reprieve and return to oblivion.

_Bump_.

"Up, Jane."

"Mmwhat?"

_Bump_.

"Get up. We're going to San Francisco."

"_Now?_" he whined, rolling to his side and turning his back to her though more fully awake, foolish thoughts fled.

She only nudged harder, lifting her knee to jab his back.

"Now. Get up or get left behind."

Knowing she wasn't about to make good on the threat and let him be, he turned his head to look up at her over his shoulder, one eye open. "Why?"

She arched an eyebrow and her voice dipped into that husky low register, provocative and enticing. "We're going to talk to a lady of the night."

"I'm up," he responded with sudden energy. She turned and headed out of the room without looking back.

Whether a warming or an opening, he didn't care. Gladly, he was at her side before she reached the elevator.

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_**Chapter 4 up tomorrow!**_


	4. Chapter 4

06_22_2012

Once she had explained that the first leg of the trip was a quick stop at her condo and declared that no, she wouldn't tell him where they were going and that he'd see when they got there, they had settled into silence, their thoughts vague, Lisbon finding her way home by rote.

She had meant her "Only be a minute" as an assurance that he wouldn't have long to wait in the car. He had interpreted it to mean he might as well step inside. She hadn't balked at his getting out of the car and following her in, accepting it as she did all of his easy infringements. She dropped car keys, badge and gun on the desk just across from her front door and, without a word, headed up the stairs leaving him to roam at will, knowing he had already seen most of what was downstairs and that he would heed no warning against it.

He could count the number of times he had entered this sanctum on one hand. The place had evolved over the years as Lisbon had gradually come to think of it as home and not merely a stopping place before the next time she felt the need to move on. He regretted for her sake that it had taken years for that to happen. Gone were the pillars of unpacked boxes and haphazard placement of a few personal mementos. She had eventually bought an armoire that housed a television (not central to the living room's arrangement) as well as, he was sure, linens for the couch in the event of an overnight guest. Photos and books lined the open shelves, scant but tasteful accessories decorated the side tables and she had even purchased dining furniture.

It was comfortable, peaceful and welcoming, and he liked being here; liked the sense of familiarity and acceptance that came with being allowed to just stand in her home and look around him. She would be surprised that this time he didn't snoop, didn't open a drawer or cabinet door, only perused the photos of her family, some including herself, some new since his last visit, from siblings across the country as they or their children had crossed life milestones, allowing his fingertips to smooth along the wood, metal and upholstered surfaces, already knowing for the most part why lay beneath.

Her footsteps on the stairs had him turning to see her, the tease that she still had the previous owner's manufactured artwork on the walls dying on his lips as he took her in. Work suit and boots had been replaced with slightly faded but still form-fitting jeans, a white v-neck and lightweight gray zip-up hoodie. Sneakers muted her footfalls, and she had her arms raised, effortlessly pulling her long hair into a low ponytail, her easy look suited to a quiet walk or casual date. Stepping down to the floor, she headed for the kitchen and indicated the stairs with a slant of her head.

"If you want to use the facilities feel free. I don't want to stop on the road."

He heard the refrigerator door open and his mind focused on what she'd said. Nodding to the empty room, he mounted the stairs, knowing she would grab two water bottles, not needing a reminder or request. Returning quickly, any perusal of her bath as unnecessary as a study of her downstairs had been, he came upon her finishing a phone call.

"Okay, Tony. We're leaving now. See you in a bit."

Slipping her cell into a jeans pocket as she opened her desk drawer, she reached in and drew out a chrome ring with four keys attached, a copy for an exterior door and three originals—one to an inside apartment door, the other two for deadbolts, the kind added as an afterthought. He had noticed them before, resting in the pencil groove along with two other keys to different front doors, when Lisbon had been drugged and framed for murder by her CBI shrink and the two of them had made a play right here in her living room to trick a confession out of him. She pocketed the ring and picked up her own keys and gun. Her hand hovered over her badge before she finally decided to pick it up as well. Once in the SUV, she stored her shield in her glove compartment then pulled out and headed for the I-80.

An hour-and-a-half. Ninety minutes—ninety-four by GPS reckoning. It was the longest she'd been in a car alone with him since he had come back from Vegas. The community service she had expected for his offenses there had not materialized once, with Agent Darcy's help, she had been able to convince the locals that Jane had been deep in an undercover operation. She had listened to their complaints, swallowed the accusations and recriminations— yes, she should have given them a heads up, should have let them in on the op and, yes, she realized what havoc Jane had wreaked during his half-year residency—and their final assertions that she was as much to blame in all things as her colleague had been. Even as she had watched whatever professional and personal favors she had accumulated in that direction turn to dust in the wind, she had thanked God there would be no long drives, no opportunity for long talks. Driving twenty minutes outside the city to see Lorelei each week was more than enough. Sensing her discomfort—though mistaken as to the reason for it—Jane had taken himself to Vegas to personally apologize to the officer he had punched the night of his arrest. Now she was looking at the drive ahead as if from down the wrong end of a gun's barrel. As long as they didn't talk, she could hope this would be the lesser danger.

Their first Thursday interview with Lorelei, her concerns had come to life when Jane had broached the subject of their acquaintance, his manner alerting her that the conversation would have nothing to do with interrogation strategy. She had recognized that sigh and tone, knew a man gearing up for a difficult explanation when she heard it. She hadn't wanted to hear his reasons for sleeping with her. She already knew, had from that first evening after Lorelei had gloated and she had had time to process it, had even come to understand it.

What she dreaded was that inflection, the tenor that would surely color Jane's voice, making him sound as if there was some reason he needed to explain to her, owed it to her for some reason to do so.

It was more than enough, the effort it took to not think about the series of events, the order of the chain, that he had slept with Lorelei then come immediately to find and follow her. That he had left her to go back and set up a meeting, heard the demand that would make him Red John's man then come back to her office to fake her murder and desecrate a suicide victim's body in his machinations to make all of his sacrifice and self-abasement pay off. That he had said . . .

_Why had he said that?_

She knew why he had done what he'd done, everything he had done, and she could accept. Even looking back on the time he'd been away—her sleepless nights, the increasingly regular visits to the quiet little church, the unanswered messages, the inability to focus on important cases and allowing her team to pick up the slack, knowing she had spent the night walking the cold damp streets, worry over his arrest and guilt for not bailing him out stabbing at her while he had been with Lorelei—she was able to acknowledge the painfully won profit. Finding out about his final ploy had been hard, but she knew why he personally hadn't wanted to be the one to tell her at that point, both of them still raw from their uneasy reunion and the danger it had posed to both of them, losing their prize in the end.

But all of that paled to the havoc that could be wreaked by two little words. Two words she believed he had forgotten he'd said like she believed he'd forgotten he had two hands. It was unnerving her, even when she didn't think about it. And she could go whole days now without doing so, keeping her exposure to him somewhat limited as she managed to do. But in the night when she turned out the light and laid her head down on her pillow, his voice, trembling and uncertain, shaking with the feeling that had called the words to his mind and forced them out his lips, resounded in her memory and beyond, filling the darkness surrounding her.

Those words seemed to change everything, color everything and unhinge everything in a way nothing else that had passed between them or around them ever had. It made everything sharper, made her see things in a different way. Her worrying over him while he was gone became loneliness, her relief at his return was more joyful warmth and her apprehension at his meaning a craving to hear the words again. And it made her feelings on Lorelei and his involvement with her something else again. If he had never said those words, she could've resisted Lorelei's cruel provocations and given at least as good as she got. But Jane's declaration had left her stripped of her armor, vulnerable to an enemy with whom he had traded intimacies for objective. Every taunt left her raw and raging at herself that she was foolish enough to allow it to _matter_.

If she was to find any equilibrium, to maintain her composure and retain her sanity, distance and silence were imperative. _Please, God, please, let him just follow my lead._

She reached out and punched the radio power button, hit the number one on her presets and settled her hand back on the steering wheel, hoping he would lean back and quietly doze to what had, before, been his favorite music.

His left hand suddenly shot toward the controls, making a different selection, hoping—in light of the fact she still had his favorite jazz station on the same button—that classical music was still on number four. He had heard enough jazz, crooners and show tunes in the past six months to last him a lifetime.

She tensed visibly, and while he would have liked to have had any conversation with her, even—no, _especially_—the empty nothings they had bantered and bickered over in the past, he recognized the signs. Lisbon was like a startled deer, tensed for escape, her anxiety even more remarkable in a woman he knew personally didn't run from anything but casual relationships that threatened to become more.

Sighing to himself and biting back the sudden surge of frustration, he pulled his jacket tighter about him and lay back in his seat.

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It was the smell that awakened him. The combination of fish and city and sea and salt that wafted in through Lisbon's open window. She took the 7th Street exit off of the interstate and pulled up to an impound lot just as a police cruiser rounded the corner and parked across the street. This time, she gave a more specific "Wait here" and got out to meet the uniformed cop as he approached.

The two greeted one another and proceeded toward the locked gate, the officer withdrawing a large, heavy key from his pocket. He opened the ancient padlock, unwound the thick chain then pulled the gate open before leading Lisbon to an area of the lot out of Jane's sight. Minutes later, they drove out in a rusted out, older model Buick LaSabre and pulled up alongside the SUV. Lisbon rolled down her driver's side window, and when the cop exited the front passenger seat, she indicated with a tilt of her head that Jane was to get in.

"You gonna be all right?" the policeman asked, giving Jane a jaundiced look as he leaned on the window frame at Lisbon's side.

"I'll be fine, Tony."

"Sure you don't need back-up?"

"Nope. Thanks again, Tony. I'll have it back in two hours. Tops."

Jane knew Tony was waiting for an explanation, but Lisbon wasn't offering any and he had to let it go.

"Okay, Detective," he finally answered. "But you need anything, anything at all, you call me. Got it?"

"Got it."

Tony straightened and knocked on the roof twice then stepped back allowing Lisbon to drive away. They headed north and west on major thoroughfares then made a series of labyrinthine turns, ending on a narrow street in what he knew was the center of the Tenderloin, one of the bay city's worst areas.

Lisbon parked the LaSabre at the curb and locked the door, shrugging her shoulders at the amused look Jane shot at her from across the car. They walked a block to a consignment shop then took the narrow stairs behind it up to a locked door. Lisbon used the copied key to open it, and they stepped into a dark hallway, Jane balefully eyeing the stained walls and carpet. Making their way to the end of the hall, Lisbon used the remaining keys to unlock the door knob and deadbolt original to the door and the other two bolts mounted a few inches above and below. Jane made to follow Lisbon into the apartment but pulled up short to watch in bemusement as she halted, yanked a single strand of her hair out and, holding one end tight, wrapped it around the doorknob twice, letting the two long ends dangle on either side. She stepped in and motioned him across the threshold, closing the door behind him without resetting the locks. In spite of the glow of nightlights in living room, bedroom, bath and kitchen, Jane couldn't really make anything out until Lisbon flipped a switch and a lamp across the room flared to life.

The inside of the apartment was as neat and orderly as the approach had been dirty and crumbling with neglect. The sofa, comfortable and well made, sat next to a deep, well-cushioned wicker chair and across from an old lowboy chest upon which rested a small flat-screen television and blue-ray player. A few feet away, an aged leather recliner anchored a set of bookshelves, obviously a favorite reading spot. The whole room was done in neutrals, a deep red throw on the couch's back and the spines of what Jane guessed to be at least a hundred books, all of them hardcover, the only pops of color.

Without thought as to what he was doing, Jane drifted to the bookshelves to peruse the titles and Lisbon made herself at home on the sofa, her voice arresting him as he lifted a hand to withdraw what looked to be a copy of "The Brothers Karamazov" in original Russian.

"You won't want to be caught doing that."

He turned to look at her, eyebrows raised, mouth forming a comprehending "o". She motioned him to the wicker chair next to her, and at the sound of the exterior door opening, turned to look at the apartment door expectantly, a hint of apprehension touching her expression.

Jane listened as footsteps drew close, slowing as they approached, arrested no doubt by the light fanning out from under the door. A rustle of clothes, a click, a pause then the door was suddenly opened.

"Teresa?" a woman's voice, unbelieving, sounded before the apartment's resident cleared the door, the long dark strand clutched in her left hand.

"Hello, Cilla," Lisbon responded.

The other woman studied her, her right thumb engaging the safety on her Beretta 92 as she lowered it to her side. She was on the rough side of her early to mid-thirties and thin, almost too thin even for her small-boned frame, probably Lisbon's height or an inch or two shorter, though it was hard to tell with the impossibly tall, spike-heeled black thigh-high boots she wore. Jane's gaze traveled up, cataloging the rest of her attire: dark gray suede mini-skirt short enough to expose several inches of fair bare skin above the boots, black fitted leather jacket over a cobalt-blue bustier camisole, all meant to reveal more than they covered. Her hair was a deep, unnatural red, slightly tousled, rising from her scalp in soft spikes. Full lips, odd in her small face, were outlined with the same purple that heavily lined her eyes, filled in with a dull blood red. Her only jewelry was a pair of silver stud earrings, a simple band on the third finger of her right hand and a trio of tiny diamonds delineating the curve of her left nostril. After a few seconds, her eyes dropped to the hair in her hand and murmured, "Good thing you remembered."

Lisbon waited, silent and unmoving, and the other woman looked up at her. "How did you know I'd be here?" she asked hoarsely.

"It's Friday," Lisbon answered, shrugging at the apparent obviousness of her answer.

Cilla looked away and swallowed hard, and Jane thought it was because she was moved that Lisbon had remembered that too.

As if to confirm his conjecture, Lisbon said, "I remember a lot of things." At that, the woman swallowed again and nodded, finally turning to look directly at her.

"You look good."

"So do you. Nice outfit," Lisbon smirked.

Cilla smiled ruefully. "What can I say? My acquaintances these days are men of taste and sophistication."

"What name are you using this time?"

"Miranda," she answered, her eyes, as boldly blue as the bustier, flaring open on the middle syllable.

Lisbon tilted her head and thought for a moment before asking, "'The Tempest'?"

"Yeah. It's one of the few viable Shakespeare picks. No way could I get away with 'Ophelia' or 'Desdemona' these days."

"Because you think somebody would catch on?"

"Hey, crime lords read. They think it gives them an air of refinement."

In spite of their banter, Jane could fell the unease, more in Cilla than Lisbon, who he could tell was guiding their conversation, spoken and not, with her soft voice. Moving on through the preliminaries, she motioned toward him.

"Jane, meet Detective Priscilla Craig. Cilla, this is my friend, Patrick Jane."

It was the first time she'd ever introduced him as such, but before he could wonder at it, those unnaturally bright blue eyes turned on him. Where they had been hesitant and searching while she watched Lisbon, now they were sharp and incisive, moving down and back up him once, making him feel as if he were being peeled and left open for later inspection.

"Yeah," was all she grunted before turning back to his partner. She reached up and over the back of her head, fingers digging under the front of what Jane realized was a wig and pulled it off, transferring it to the other hand before repeating the action to remove the tight liner. Nut-brown, jaw-length hair tumbled in fine, unruly curls around her head and when she ran her fingers through it, Jane was surprised to see a few fine silver threads. What he had taken for worn youth was actually well-preserved middle-age, a few years older than Lisbon, one or two older than himself.

"What can I do for you?"

"I just need some information."

Cilla nodded and asked, "You have time for me to take a quick shower? I want to get out of this." She motioned up and down her body vaguely with the Beretta, and Jane knew she was talking about more than the clothes.

"Sure. Take your time."

Cilla turned, heading to the bedroom and through it to the bath when she suddenly spun around in the doorway and pinned Jane again with those eyes.

"Look. But don't touch."

Having looked at her books long enough to see a red leather-bound complete set of Jane Austen novels, he asked, tentative and hopeful, "Tea?"

She looked him up and down again, and he squelched the impulse to check his fly.

"Kettle's on the stove, caddy and honey are next to it, cups and saucers in the cabinet above. Everything you need is right there."

And if it wasn't, he didn't need it. Once she knew that was understood, she closed the door. Jane waited until he heard the shower start before going to the kitchen. He filled the kettle, put it on to boil and reached down a cup and saucer. Wondering whether he would face death or dismemberment, he quickly stepped to the refrigerator and retrieved the milk and splashed a bit in the cup, returning it to its place before closing the door. He chose a fine tea and, thinking he had already taken his life into his hands once, took a second bag before reaching into the cabinet above the coffee maker to find a mug. Lisbon and he hadn't shared tea since he had been back, and he had missed it.

Waiting for the water to well and truly boil, he strolled back into the living room, glancing at Lisbon where she had closed her eyes and laid her head back. Knowing she wasn't asleep, he searched out the situation even as he did the room, beginning with the books, fists jammed deep in his jacket pockets to foil temptation.

"Cilla a former colleague?"

Songs of the Portuguese rested against a set of Louis L'Amour, Harry Potter mingled with Agatha Christie, Tolkein nestled in with Tolstoy and Suzanne Collins coupled with Rudyard Kipling, several first editions—and not a single work of non-fiction—among them.

"Mm. And friend."

"Former friend?" He turned to look at her, and her eyes opened slowly to gaze back at him.

"It's complicated."

Nearly everything about her time in San Francisco was, so he let it go. Her eyes slid shut again, and he moved on to the dvd's, amused to find the complete "Firefly" and "X-Files", as well as screen versions of several of the books in the apartment.

"She's undercover?"

"Mm. Been doing it for years, and she's the best. SFPD loans her out to other California law enforcement, even the Feds."

"You ever work with her?"

He stopped at the desk and leaned over it to more closely inspect what appeared to be an original simple sketch by Manet, a study of one of the figures in a larger, well-known painting.

"A few times."

"Doing . . .?"

He turned around to find her eyes on him, watching.

"It's complicated."

The kettle whistled, and he made the tea, a small amount of clover honey for his and a more generous helping for Lisbon's, taking his seat in the wicker chair as Cilla returned. Her wet hair was pinned and clipped back into a small, unruly bun, and the hooker's attire replaced with pajamas, white with tiny black polka-dots, full-length bottoms and short sleeves to reveal skin as fair and unmarked as her face. Contacts removed, her eyes were a golden hazel, but the look in them was just as sharp as they fastened on his cup then slid to Lisbon's mug and back. She walked into the kitchen and pulled a can of ginger ale from the refrigerator, doing a double-take and adjusting the position of the milk before closing the door and popping the top.

Lisbon turned sideways on the couch, angling one knee towards its back and Cilla sat at the other end mirroring her position. She took a drink then looked at Lisbon expectantly, leaning sideways to put the can on the coffee table as she took a photograph from Lisbon's extended hand.

"You ever seen her before? Might have gone by the name 'Lisa Morales'."

Craig studied the picture for a few seconds before handing it back.

"Yeah, I know her. Knew her. She was a working girl. Called herself 'Lynda'. 'Lynda,'" she repeated. "With a 'y'. Looks like she's had some work done, but that's her. We talked a few times. She started hooking while she was at Cal State to supplement low funds, dropped out after two years and went from job to job until hooking was her primary. She was a loner, stand-offish, thought she was better than the other girls. With a mean streak. Didn't make her any friends. Still, they were all pretty upset when she went missing."

"Missing?"

"That's what I assumed it was. Three years ago, almost exactly. I was working the Ortiz case in the Bayview area. I was late hitting the street, and it all happened before I got there. There'd been this car parked in the next block. Old Mercedes, 'classic' the girls said. All they could tell me about the color was that it was 'dark' and nobody saw the plates. Anyway, a couple of them offered, but the guy said he wasn't interested."

"You get a description?"

"He kept his face turned away, so no. All they could tell me was he didn't seem to be too tall. Not fat but not fit. 'Doughy' one of them called him. But they remembered his voice well enough. High-pitched and kind of nasal. Creepy. They were glad he'd turned them down even if the car did smell like money."

"What happened?"

"Lynda—Lisa—showed up while they were talking about him. She took a look at the car and walked over to try her hand, leaned into the driver's side window. He showed her something, and she drew back, cursing, and started to walk off. They thought maybe he was undercover, wanting information. But he said something to her, and she turned around, went back and talked for a couple of minutes then walked around and got in the car. Left with the guy."

She paused then, contemplating, before she spoke again.

"They said it was like he was looking for a type."

She looked at Lisbon speculatively, the agent returning her gaze evenly.

"Anyway, she didn't come back. And that wasn't like her. Every night, all night, no days off, no holidays. After three or four nights, I stopped by some of the businesses on that street wearing my day clothes. Nobody knew anything, and there are no security cameras in the area. I checked traffic cams, but whoever he was got in clean and out the same way. I would've done a vehicle search, but finding a classic Mercedes in California without a tag number or color? Good luck. Eventually I sent her description out to morgues in California and surrounding, but I never heard anything back. Going by the time stamp, that picture's fairly recent, so I take it she's resurfaced alive and well?"

"She's a material witness in a case we're working. Goes by the name Lorelei Martins now."

Cilla nearly choked on the ginger ale she'd just swallowed before exploding.

"Lorelie!" Her eyes, wide with incredulity, slid to Jane and back to Lisbon. "_Your_ Lorelei? _Red John's Lorelei?_"

Jane stepped into the conversation at that point. "How do you know about her?"

Her gaze on him was so malevolent, he felt himself trying to shrink into his chair.

"I'm a _cop_. Word gets around."

Marshaling his manhood, he leaned forward to inquire, "You said she'd had work done. What work?"

"Her nose was wider, lips fuller," she answered, addressing Lisbon and gesturing toward those elements on her own face. "She's been nip-tucked. Features are finer now."

She looked hard at Lisbon again, this time worry mixed with suspicion. "Treese, what's going on?"

"Just trying to get some background, something we can use to open her up."

Realizing that was all the information she would get, Craig looked away, her right hand rising to rub up and down the outside of her upper left arm.

"Well . . . it's been a long night, and I need sleep. So if that's all . . .'

"It is. Thanks, Cill."

Her eyes came back to Lisbon's, hand stilling, and her expression went soft, yielding.

"Any time, Treese. Anything I can do—you know that."

"I do."

Accord reached, they both stood, Jane following suit. Cilla walked to the entrance, undid the locks and opened the door, stepping back, her hand resting on the knob. Lisbon stopped on the threshold and turned to face her.

"Anything I can do for you too, right, Cilla?"

"I'm up for early retirement next year, so if you could make time speed up? Sure would make it easy on me." she answered.

"Sorry," Lisbon managed a small tight half-smile. "But I don't think I would if I could. You know I was never one to make anything easy."

At that, Cilla suddenly stepped forward and enveloped Lisbon in a tight, almost desperate hug. "Be careful, Treese," she whispered. "Please, just . . . be careful."

She released and retreated as abruptly as she had made the first move, one hand going to her hip as the other dashed at both eyes.

"I didn't pull your skinny butt out of the fire all those times to see you jump into it now."

"As I recall, it was me saving your bony ass every time I turned around."

"Whatever, Hot-shot."

Lisbon reached for her hand and gave it a final squeeze before she walked out. Before Jane could follow, Craig stalled him, her hand firmly in the center of his chest. She stepped in front of and into him, head up, eyes boring into his.

"Take care of her."

"I will."

"She'll give everything. 'Til she's got nothing left. Don't take that for granted."

"I won't. I swear."

She raised her hand, giving one hard push with her fingertips before releasing him and stepping to the side. He made his way down the hall to where Lisbon waited for him, hearing the door shut and bolts thrown behind him. Once outside, they wordlessly sank into their respective seats in the LaSabre and made their way to the impound yard.

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Tony was waiting for them at the lot, grousing lightly about getting back to the precinct in time to check in, but when Lisbon thanked him again, he grinned and waved her off with an "Anything for you, Detective."

She got on the interstate to head back to Sacramento, but at the Treasure Island exit, she suddenly pulled off and merged onto the Embarcadero South, driving through the China Basin and across the bridge, coming to a stop in the Pier 48 parking lot, facing the bay. Her hands skittered in opposite directions on the steering wheel to meet at the bottom center then back up to come together at the top. A breath came out on a deep whoosh as she leaned forward and laid her forehead on her clenched fingers.

"That was hard," Jane said quietly, and she didn't deny it. She stayed like that for a few minutes. His hand reached out and, uncertain of how or how much to touch her, settled for resting his hand on her upper arm.

"She was a friend, you said?"

"The best. She really did pull me out of the fire. Lots of times. She was . . . You couldn't get anything past her."

Jane left it at that, giving her arm a soft squeeze before withdrawing. She lifted her head and looked out at the bay, her expression woebegone.

"When I left San Francisco . . . after . . ."

"You didn't part well."

"No . . ." Her eyes roamed across the water as if searching for the words.

"I understand, Lisbon. You don't have to say it."

She turned to him, her eyes so full of awful regret and abject gratitude, the pull in his chest seized hold of him with full force, a strong tug, as if by a cord, somewhere to the left of center and down, from behind his ribs. He felt words well up in him, a dangerous urging, and he remembered the way she had looked at him from the other side of that nine-millimeter—her expression wary and shocked in spite of knowing the plan. It wasn't the gun. It was those words.

He didn't know why he's said it. He had refused to contemplate any outcome but success, but if he had wanted to say something on a last chance, wouldn't an apology have been more fitting? Or perhaps a thank you for all she'd done for him, all she had meant to him? Instead, the words he had never thought to say to a woman again had tumbled out of his mouth, coming from where he didn't know—certainly not his head.

He only knew at the time that he was seeing her the way Dumar Hardy had seen her, the way Craig O'Laughlin had as well. And for the third time since she had known him, she was faced with an agent of Red John pointing a gun at her, death the objective. And though it was feigned, though Red John's man was an imposter, this time it had been him. And, oh how he had wanted to set himself apart, sanctify himself from being counted as one of them.

Later, setting up in the warehouse, when she had asked him, wanting clarification, he had deflected like a master, a mere slight of heart. He did remember, but if he tried to explain or—God help him—repeated it, those words would change everything. For both of them.

The thought of it—the danger she would be in, the hindrance to his objective along with a myriad of other innocuous, infectious tiny things—made him cringe, made him want to pull away and distance himself . . . exactly as Lisbon had done.

Suddenly it all came clear to him, her distance and stiffness of the past few weeks, shutting him out. He had been a fool to think she would believe he had forgotten, and a bigger one to think she would forget about it just because he had refused to talk. Of course she hadn't, in spite of what he knew were her strongest intentions. What he had done seemed cowardly now—that he had made what amounted to a declaration then refused to account for it.

And he owed her an accounting, just like he owed her loyalty and friendship and trust because he had taken so much from her and because here she was yet again, having put herself in harm's way, not contending with a politically ambitious boss or a disgruntled big-wig or even an armed mad man. She had faced her own painful past, reopening a wound from which she would never fully recover, exposing herself and her heart. Just to help him find an answer.

Did he owe her the truth in return? Even if he wasn't sure what it was, even if he feared learning it himself more than anything, except losing what he had with her? A memory flashed through his mind: Lisbon standing and staring at him in the attic, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, calling him an idiot before telling him she would take care of a problem he'd made for himself and turning on her heel to march downstairs and punch Donnie Culpepper. She was right. He had been an idiot to think he was the only one who could have all of the answers. Trust Lisbon to know what needed to be done, to know both their limits.

"Lisbon?"

His tone held question, but she had watched the thoughts and emotions chase across his expression until uncertainty was replaced by determination. And that frightened her. Whatever he was about to say had nothing to do with the woman they had just left and everything to do with the thing they were both running from. But, she had come this far with him and refused to turn tail now. Shifting in her seat had her facing him straight on, her back leaning into the corner formed by her car seat and door, ready to hear whatever he had to say. As usual, he silently applauded her courage while taking the easier way, offering her a broad opening but setting a plausible limit in hopes of avoiding the painful specifics.

"If you could ask me just one question right now, and be assured on whatever proof you might choose that I would answer truthfully and not turn it to another purpose, what might that question be?"

She closed her eyes and sat silently for a moment, the two of them still and waiting. When her eyes opened, she looked at him so directly that he thought she could already read the answer in him.

"When did you know Lorelei was working for Red John?"

He exhaled his own captive breath and squinted out his window. The question was so unexpected that he found himself searching for the answer, even though it was much simpler than what he had been dreading. He didn't understand it, but there was some reason she wanted to know, some reason it was important. He wouldn't question it—he had given her his assurance, something he gave sincerely only to her and her alone. He wouldn't cheapen that, make it of no value to her, of no future value to _him_.

"The first time I met her."

"When she approached you at the bar?"

"I'd made a routine for myself, stayed at the same motel, ate at the same restaurants, played the same three casinos, drank at the same bar. She served my drinks a few times, beginning weeks before she joined me for a chat."

"Is that when you first talked to her? The first time she served you a drink?"

He had only offered to answer one question but knew now was not the time for chiding her. Besides it all seemed to be part of the same thing.

"Only to order and pay. We didn't actually talk until she approached me just before my arrest."

"She took your order and your payment."

"Yes."

"And you could tell from that? How?"

"Cocktail waitresses flirt, play the coquette. It's their technique. But only the booze is for sale. When she set the drink down on the table . . . it was her body language. She was offering something else."

"That could've been—"

"It wasn't."

"But how did you—"

"I knew Lisbon. I just knew. I wouldn't have . . . I don't think I would've even noticed her otherwise."

She looked at him, that deep searching look again, and his eyes widened in a silent plea for belief. Finally, her face and body relaxed, the sparkle he had missed lighting her eyes. His bones seemed to melt, he was that relieved to have managed to say the right thing.

She ran her hands up the sides of the steering wheel then over the top, extending her arms forward and bowing her back in a stretch.

"I know a place," she said quietly, "that serves the best breakfast in San Francisco. We could watch the sun come up."

"Do they have eggs?"

One hand covered her mouth, and he could barely understand her around a huge yawn. "Would I take you to breakfast some place that doesn't have eggs?"

"Ah, but are they _good_ eggs?"

Her bent arm rejoined the other in the stretch, and she twisted first to one side then the other.

"The owner came over from Eastern Europe about a hundred years ago. Been cooking here ever since. You've never had eggs like this."

"It's been a long time since I've had a good breakfast," he said wistfully.

"About seven months?"

"Something like that," he grinned at her softly. "Will there be tea, Lisbon?"

"Her own secret blend," she assured him before leaning closer and whispering as if offering further inducement. "Serves it out of an ancient samovar."

"Then what are we waiting for, m'dear?"

She fired the ignition and wheeled around to exit the lot. "What indeed, Jane. What indeed."


	5. Chapter 5

06.28.2012

Déjà vu. Already seen. Figuratively, a disagreeable familiarity or sameness. Jane felt like he had a standing appointment.

He had faced every interview with Lorelei with the certainty that he would make progress, more of an inroad—even if only an inch at a time—into getting her to give them what they wanted. He had hoped that she had been so deeply dependent upon Red John that the forced separation from him would be the stressor, or at least the catalyst that would finally lead to a break. But day after day and now week after week her loyalty had held fast, meeting every question and tactic with the same bland amusement, giving away nothing. And today, heading for the FBI facility, he felt the beginnings of despair at how long it was taking, how long it _would_ take to get anything of substance out of her. Lisbon had seen it, he was sure, evidenced by the forced and tremulous smile of encouragement, a little too bright, she had given him as they set out.

That was the one hopeful spark he found in all of this. Lisbon was more her old self, or was helping him to feel more like _his_ old self—he wasn't sure. However it was panning out, things were better between them. He found comfort on her couch again, she stayed late for tea, in the past week they had bickered as if making up for lost time, and the attic had once again lost its allure. There was now only a slight disquiet on both of their parts. He was certain Lisbon's was due to the lingering uneasiness she felt over the admission he had made that day in her office. She sometimes had difficulty looking him in the eye and while she would often chuckle over a shared joke or smirk at his antics, she had yet to give him one of her genuine smiles—warm, serene and accepting—that made him feel that he was truly welcome to be back with her.

And that was the source of _his_ unease. The bond that he had come to treasure in spite of his conviction that he had no right to it had been noticed. And now, every moment, every look, everything that passed between them that reminded him of how _glad_ he was to be _where_ he was also brought to mind the danger that had lately drawn too near.

He closed his passenger side door and pushed the thought from his mind, struggling to slip into the persona of the cunning manipulator he adopted for his clashes with Lorelei. But as he anticipated the inevitable and now frustratingly familiar motions, it was hard to find his game face.

They walked up the shallow stone steps and Lisbon pushed the front door open, Jane reaching forward and over her head to grasp its edge and hold it as she stepped into the building. They were, as always, greeted by her old acquaintance. Rounding the corner, Dr. Mann stepped out of his office to escort them, appreciative looks for Lisbon and a curt nod for her consultant, giving them a brief assessment of Lorelei's state of mind and a recounting of some small out-of-the-ordinary happening during one of their sessions. Mann swiped his ID, the steel door opened, and when Lorelei turned in her transparent cocoon to look at them, the gleam in her eye made Jane—for just an instant—want to take hold of Lisbon and run.

Which, of course, he could not do. No matter how he hated these skirmishes, hated the circumstances that had brought Lorelei into his sphere and was coming to hate the woman herself, he knew he must stay the course, nothing less than ending Red John an acceptable outcome. So instead, he kept his eyes on the back of Lisbon's head, watched it bob as she nodded to each of the guards then turned to face their adversary, the tiniest roll of her shoulders as they squared. And he decided if she could face this, so could he.

Immediately on the heels of that thought, another occurred to him. Lisbon looked good today. She was always attractive, of course, but today she seemed to have taken extra care with her appearance. Gone was the usual Thursday suit, her more casual tight, dark jeans donned in its place. Her red top scooped deep at the neck, the sensuous sweep of fair skin a contrast to the demure cross. Her make-up was still light enough to appear natural but was more than the bare minimum she had been wearing when he had first returned from Vegas. And her dark hair fell about her shoulders, cascading down her back and over her chest in a riot of curls. He realized with a start that this was actually the way she had looked most days before his six-month absence. But today would be the first time Lorelie had seen her this way. And, while Jane would adamantly refuse to play on Red John's supposed interest in Lisbon to lay hold of their objective, he saw nothing wrong with testing the jealousy theory and using it against the woman in the cell. With that, his own shoulders squared as Guard Number One punched a button on the console in front of him and the glass door opened before them.

Since Lisbon's first interview with Lorelei, Jane had taken point, making sure to present a unified front, he and Lisbon as an inseparable team, to Red John's girl. Today he decided to take it up a notch. Once inside the clear cell, he sat across from their suspect-informant and nonchalantly pulled the empty chair next to him closer to his side and rested his arm along the top of its back, turning to look up at Lisbon with his head tilted in invitation, eyes moving from hers to the chair and back again. When Lisbon took her seat, her thigh slid against his. His hand tightened on the chair back in apprehension of her reaction, that she might balk or hesitate or—worse yet—slide the chair away. But she sat, calm and composed, leaning back lightly against his arm, her hands on the table, fingers loosely threaded, her expression enigmatic, accepting his nearness and attention. He let his eyes linger on her face for an instant too long for professionalism before sliding his arm from behind her and turning to face the woman across the table with a confident, self-satisfied smile. The calculating, malicious eyes above her own coyly curving lips surprised him and, squelching his sudden apprehension, he began the interview.

For the next quarter hour, they conversed in a loop of thrust and parry. Jane questioned, cajoled and patronized. Lorelei teased, jeered and evaded. Through it all, Lisbon sat unmoving, an observant sphinx at his side. Jane felt his frustration mounting, was desperate to rein it in, doubly irked by the more persistent use of the now hated nickname. Lorelei's head tilted, and he knew the direction the interview was about to take. Something tight and thick rose up in him and as her eyes started to slide towards the woman at his side, he did something he hadn't meant to do. He called her relationship with Red John into question, none too subtly taking a shot at its legitimacy. Her gaze stuttered then moved back to him, and there was a flutter of her left eye. He knew that what happened in the next few seconds would be the proof that he had finally made a dent in her resolve _or_ committed a colossal blunder. Her smile widened into a predatory grin, and his heart clenched. At the same time, in his peripheral vision, he saw Lisbon's hands move. The relaxed clasp loosened further without releasing then settled back into position as a ripple of excitement ran through her and pulsed against his thigh. Lisbon had seen something he had not, caught a scent that had eluded him. Any comfort he could take in it was short lived.

"Oh, Lover," Lorelei crooned sadistically. "I wondered how long it would take us to come to that."

She would need no prompting to continue, her objective to inflict pain, and he allowed her, hoping she might let something slip and relieved that this time he was the intended target of her taunting. In spite of his best efforts at control, he felt himself stiffen, waiting for the impact.

"You didn't think about that at first, did you? No," she lowered her voice in feigned and chilling sympathy. "You didn't think about anything, did you, Lover. Except maybe how good it felt after so long? When did it first occur to you that you were sharing? That I had left him to come to you and left your bed to go back. That I would need to . . ." Her eyes roamed up and down him. " . . . Detox? That I would want him to erase you from my skin. From my body. That I would want _his_ touch, _his_ scent to cover me . . ." She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, head thrown back in remembered bliss. "To renew me."

He felt the breath in his mouth go hot and dry. Lorelei's eyes rounded and her lips formed a pout, her voice taking on a softly patronizing tone, as if she were talking to an unfortunate child.

"But you didn't have that, did you, Lover? No one to go to. No one to make you forget that the first woman you had, the first woman you chose to take after Angela belonged to someone else." Her eyes took on a bright light, and excited energy shot through her, straightening her back. "But not to just _anyone_ else. To _him_. To the very person that had taken her and dear little Charlotte away from you. He sent me to you. A gift. An enticement. And you accepted it. You _enjoyed_ it. Did you move like that with Angela?"

His skin seemed to shrink to him, the cruelty of her words withering any meat to dust. Lisbon leaned slightly into the table, watching Lorelei with a lurid fascination, and he wanted to scream at her, strike out at her for her hungry attention to the inflicting of his suffering. But, he bitterly reasoned, he had sat in silence when the jeering had been directed at her, and the complete injustice of his anger hit home when Lorelei turned her mocking gaze in that direction now.

"He's really such a sensual delight. Skin so unexpectedly soft under his clothes. Such a delicious contrast to the roughness of his beard. And so thoughtful. Truthfully, I didn't think I would enjoy it as much as I did."

He felt Lisbon's thigh twitch once against his as she leaned further toward his tormentor, realizing only then that his leg had sagged toward hers, pressing into her. He wanted to let his gaze slide to her, but Lorelei's eyes shifted back to his as she continued, renewing her assault on him.

"But Red John said that was all right," she informed him eagerly. "He wanted you to believe I wanted you, wanted you to want more. I knew I'd gotten it right when you asked if you would see me again."

Another twitch against his thigh, and he felt his chest constrict, each inhalation a silent torture against the grip of her words. And from somewhere that pull again, a tugging on a cord latched deep in his sinews.

"Did I make you forget, Lover? Did I take you to that nastier, naughtier place inside where your real desires lie? Did I satisfy you more, make you feel more alive than sweet, good, lovely Angela?"

She leaned her head back and looked at him down her nose, her eyes hooded.

"Do you still feel it? Want me even now? Is the only thing stopping you from taking me again, making love to me—" her eyes, sneering and malevolent slid to Lisbon, "_her_?"

What felt like the last of the moisture in his body rose up as bile in his throat. He pushed himself up from the table and turned to hammer at the clear prison door, shooting over the threshold in relief as it opened, barely registering the sound of the electronic release of the locks on the steel outer door. He lengthened his stride, resisting the panicked urge to run, to flee, hearing Lisbon calling his name behind him. He negotiated the hallways, demanding the opening of gates at the checkpoints as he headed for the front door, panting through shallow breaths, sure he would not be able to draw untainted air into his burning lungs until he was outside and away.

He had nearly made it to the final corner before reaching entrance security when he felt a tug from behind then a tilt and turn, landing his back against the cool institutional wall tile. Lisbon looked up into his eyes, searching, her concern for him written on her face, streaming from her, hands against his shoulders, her body pressing fully against his, holding him in place. She tore her gaze from his, made a visual sweep of their surroundings. Stepping away from him but taking firmer hold of his shoulders, she walked backwards pulling him with her. It wasn't until they were in the large cube-shaped room and she flicked the light on that he realized they must be in the visitors' area ladies' room.

She pulled him past her then leaned around him to lock the door, her other hand sliding down to curl across the front of his elbow. Her free hand returning to his other elbow, she pivoted them and backed him across the room, stopping to lower the lid on the high, handicap-accessible commode before she sat him down on it. Her hands slid to his shoulders as Jane sagged forward, elbows leaning heavily on widespread knees, head bowed, fingers running vicious, tortured strokes through his hair. She bent to his right side, left hand fishing gingerly in his trouser pocket for the white handkerchief she knew he kept there. Straightening, she transferred the snowy square to her right hand, her left taking possession of his shoulder in its place, never relinquishing her hold on him as she reached over to turn on the faucet and soak the kerchief in cold water then wring it out in her clenched fingers.

The hand at his shoulder moved, backs of her fingertips stroking across his chest to gently grasp his chin and lift his face to hers as she stepped into him, one leg sliding between his knees, loosely tangling them together. Grateful that his eyes were closed, she shook the fabric out of its folds and bathed his face, tenderly drawing the cooling balm across his forehead, feeling him lean into the touch before she laved his eyelids, stroked down his nose, swept back and forth across his cheeks and swirled around his chin, her eyes following her movements. Her fingertips moved on him again, sweeping to brace against the back of his neck so she could continue her ministrations up and down his throat then around and down to his nape, angling closer to look over his shoulder to better see as she circled there twice. She slowly brought the cloth, now warmed from his overheated skin up and back around to his jaw, her left hand moving to his right shoulder as she leaned back to better see him. His eyes opened slowly, looking at her with an intensity so keen that she could feel it prickle along the skin of her face.

And for some unfathomable reason, she smiled.

It started in her eyes, quiet and serene, sparking the cool jade to warm depths, then crinkled at the corners, traveling down to gently curve her closed lips. Jane gulped one great breath and grabbed hold of her, reducing the small distance between them to nothing, moving his leg so that both of hers were now between his knees, his arms moving under her jacket and around her, fitting her to him and him to her as snugly as he possibly could. The height of his seat put him at a level such that his face landed perfectly in the crook of her neck, and he burrowed himself in. A tremor ran through him, and Lisbon's grip tightened, the shadow of that smile never leaving her lips.

He had only actually outright hugged her twice, both times when he had returned to her—or to the team—once out of gratitude that she had agreed to take him back, the other because he knew she had done so before he could ask. Both times had caught her off guard, woefully unprepared for such an overt display of affection. But this time she was ready. Her left arm slid across the back of his shoulders as far as she could reach, her right rising to stroke once across the back of his neck and up, her fingers tunneling through his hair, massaging his scalp, the forgotten kerchief falling to the floor. His whole body trembled again, and her brow furrowed in concern when moisture dampened her skin. She laid her cheek against the side of his head and whispered.

"It's all right, Jane. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, and it's all right."

His hold constricted so tightly that her ribs ached and she was more leaning against him than standing. She felt his lips move, pressed tight at her collarbone, and though his hoarse whisper was muffled by her skin, she still understood.

"I didn't . . . it wasn't . . ."

Unable to put his denials into words, he simply ended on a strangled, "_Please_."

She may have known and understood what he had done, but she had only _thought _she knew what it had cost him to leave behind the only real friends he'd ever had, the only people who had expected nothing more from him than to not do himself harm. Now she saw for herself how much it had hurt him, to leave Grace and Rigsby and Cho. To leave her. To be completely alone in his quest for the first time in years and the danger it posed, both physically and psychologically. And that finally, to make the whole ugly thing worth his while, he had been forced to leave behind Angela and Charlotte, the two people he had once thought to be the only source of joy and beauty in his entire life, to commit the final act, what, for him, was the ultimate ugliness.

And she thought she was closer to understanding that hug, those words he'd spoken in her office just before he had faked her shooting. Jane was a cynic, jaded practically from childhood. Everybody was either a con or a mark and nothing was ever free. But that small separate part of him—the part that recognized the fleeting innocence in children, that knew loved ones should be protected at all costs, whose only advice on seducing a woman was to offer her love and affection—was a shameless and enduring romantic. And while Jane might be able to see what had passed between him and Lorelei as nothing of meaning or significance in the physical sense, it would have greatly affected that small, tender portion of him that craved something real of purity and beauty, something that he could hold sacred. To that part of him, that embrace and those words were what he should have been able to give to the first woman after Angela. And Lisbon knew he had offered neither to Lorelei. What had happened between them had been no union, merely a volley of strategies.

And immediately after, he had come to her, seeking her out, following her to the church. She remembered how giddy he had been, thrilled to have crawled under the pews and startled her like a mischievous child. Had it been relief at seeing her again or was it just having someplace to come afterwards, where there was nothing to remind him of how low he had sunk? Someone to come back to who was glad to take him as he was found so long as he was safe. Someone who lost sleep over him and cursed him for worrying her. Then, after Lorelei had made her hideous demand, he had called her, explaining the plan, giving her barely enough time to bring the team in, allowing her to give them only the necessary answers to their many shocked and angry questions and promise them a full accounting later. He had texted her upon his arrival at the CBI, and she had met him at her office, leading him in. She was braced for what had to happen next, the timing, escaping detection by security. But suddenly, he had taken hold of her, grasping her to him, and she was unsure. Not of him or herself or their ability to carry through, but of what was going on inside his head. Then he had drawn back, pulled the gun and uttered words so completely unexpected—as if he wasn't sure how it would all turn out and had to take what might be a final chance—that the shock of them had momentarily fogged her thinking, her mind vacated of any thought. Suddenly, the play was upon them, and there wasn't time until later when they were alone and her casual question had elicited the biggest bit of sheep dip he had ever produced for her consumption. And she had pretended to go along, knowing she would never bring it up again . . . and never forget.

But right now it didn't matter. He had held her and said those words to her. And that was all right. She didn't know what it meant and maybe wouldn't for a long time, if ever. And for now that was all right too. She took a firmer hold on him, leaning further into him, bending her lips to his ear so close she could feel her skin brush against his.

"I know, Jane. I understand. I know you, know what all of this has meant to you. Angela and Charlotte and finding him and ending it, trying to keep everyone safe through it all. And I know what didn't mean anything. I know she's lying. I know. It's all right. All of it. It's all right. Do you understand me, Jane? I know it all."

He couldn't bring her any closer, but his grip tightened again, fingertips digging into her flesh through the thin fabric of her shirt. She felt him nod into her neck. His body relaxed against her as did his embrace, and his skin seemed to cool under her touch, but he made no move to let go. She clung to him in return, her left hand massaging the back of his left shoulder, his head cradled in her right hand, her fingertips gently kneading his scalp.

They remained so for several minutes, silently and comfortingly admitting their mutual need for one another, until Lisbon's smile bloomed anew, her eyes rolling at the feel of Jane's fingertips tracing small, slow circles against her sides. In the next instant, the sensations he was causing spawned a tightening at the base of her spine that warmed and tingled up her back and down her legs. She inhaled and exhaled deeply and felt his grip tighten again in anticipation of her withdrawal.

"You know we have to go back in there, don't you?" she asked. Another nod of his head against her neck had her giving his curls an encouraging pat.

"You have any problem with me taking the lead this time?"

With a shake of his head he breathed a sigh against her skin. She tingled again head to toe and the feel of his lips curling against her earned him a cranial slap. He loosened his hold but didn't allow space between them, his arms still around her, hands fanning against her back. She turned her face into his hair and dragged her lips kisslessly to his temple, pausing there for an instant, eyes closed, before pulling back. She rolled her eyes again, slid her right hand to the side of his neck then under his jaw, forcing his face away from her throat and lifting it to hers.

"Open your eyes, Jane."

"Not yet?" he pleaded.

"Now, Jane."

He did as she ordered, and for an instant she regretted his compliance for the devastation his gazed caused her. She swallowed hard against how easy it would be to just stay in this moment, alone with him, shutting out the world. But she had seen something in those last moments with Lorelei—how she hated even the name now—and her request to take the lead had held both meaning and promise. She owed him—not because of anything he had done but because of what they were to one another—and she wouldn't let him down.

In silent accord, Lisbon stepped back as Jane rose, the two of them moving to stand side-by-side in front of the mirror, each checking their own reflections then the other's.

"Ready?" she asked, her reflected eyes meeting his.

His gaze held hers for a moment then both brows raised in question. She stared back, unwavering, and he knew she meant for him to wait and see. Turning to face her direct, he gestured toward the door, inviting her to precede him.

They stepped into the hall, ignoring the quizzical looks of the security guards and walked back into the depths of the prison. Once inside the cell, Lisbon sat directly across from Lorelei, Jane taking the second chair, scooting back into position, his thigh resting against his partner's, leaning against the chair back and relaxing his upper body toward her. Lisbon's right hand shifted under the table, the lightest pressure on his leg before clasping her hands loosely in her lap, her silent message plain. _Be still_.

Lorelei eyed Lisbon disdainfully then turned to Jane.

"What, Lover? Will Saint Teresa fight your—"

"Lorelei, who told you about me?" Lisbon's sweet, light inquiry cut across the other woman's mocking tone.

"What?" she asked, head swiveling back, thought and intention derailed.

"When we first met. You said you had heard a lot about me." Her eyes slid briefly in Jane's direction then back. "I can't imagine that I was the subject of pillow talk."

Jane's thigh jerked minutely, and Lisbon arched her ankle, rubbing her leg lightly against his, quieting him. The darkening of Lorelei's expression was barely perceptible, and Jane's attention riveted to that flutter, a definite twitch at the corner of her left eye.

"Does Red John talk about me a lot, Lorelei?" Lisbon had seen it, too. "Does he get a certain look? A certain smile?"

A tiny muscle spasmed in Lorelei's cheek, and her smile tightened as she made to answer. Lisbon didn't give her the chance.

"Do you know why you're here, Lorelei?" in that same light, almost carefree tone. Thrown back into momentary uncertainty as if she thought the question was a trick, Lorelei's eyes shifted, searching for an answer. Lisbon raised a hand in a dismissive wave, gave a patronizing chuckle.

"Not here." She tapped the top of the table between them with her index fingertip. "_In here_."

Lorelei looked at her curiously, obviously waiting to see where Lisbon was going, eyes calculating.

"You're here—," Lisbon began as if explaining something to a child, her eyes shifting from one end of the oblong enclosure to the other, "—because when we get one of Red John's pawns, they end up dead." Her hand raised again, slowly waving to one side then the other. "Jane shoots them. Van Pelt shoots them." Her hand lowered back to her lap. "Mostly Red John kills them. Or arranges their death. You're here to keep that from happening, keep him from getting to you."

Jane, slightly shocked and completely intrigued by her manner, turned to watch her directly. Her ankles curled around the front legs of her chair as she leaned forward, hands coming together on the table, fingers twining, her voice almost confiding, hinting at girl talk.

"The thing is, Lorelei. That means you can't get to him either. You can't hear his voice, see him, touch him. Nothing to reassure yourself."

Another twitch. Lisbon unabashedly motioned toward it with index and middle fingers of her right hand before lowering it to rejoin her left. "And it's getting to you. Part of you has to be wondering why he hasn't made the effort. Even if only to kill you."

Lorelei opened her mouth to retort, but Lisbon cut her off again, returning to her previous thread.

"Does he get that look sometimes when he's not talking, Lorelei? Maybe sometimes when he's looking at you?"

Lisbon's voice had taken on a deep huskiness, rich with sympathy, a level of cruel mockery even Lorelei hadn't been able to achieve. It had Red John's girl simmering now, working to a full-on seethe. Jane thought she might be so incensed that she was having difficulty ordering her thoughts. Or, she was waiting for an opening, a chance to drive her own barb deep. Even if she did manage to come up with something, he knew Lisbon didn't need his protection now. As if reading his thoughts, Lorelei's eyes found his.

"Are you going to let her talk to me like that, Lover?"

Lisbon was running the show, and he made no effort to answer.

"Lover?" Lisbon chuckled derisively. "You and Jane were never lovers. It wasn't even a one- night stand." Her eyes shifted up and to the right and she went into that lilting, dangerous sing-song. "You thought you were manipulating him, he was using you." Eyes came back to Lorelei's. "Hell, I don't even know that I'd call it sex."

The other woman's eyes went to laser sharpness, the inevitable rejoinder on her tongue. Lisbon leaned forward eagerly and lowered her voice to just above a whisper, "He's a master of bio-rhythms, self-hypnosis, that kind of stuff. He can slow his heart rate, fake a fever, make his body do all kinds of things. "

Lorelei blinked at the implied insult. Lisbon leaned back, her head tilted to one side as she considered the woman across from her, voice relaxed and conversational.

"I wonder about Red John's indifference to you, though. He's no fool. He knows everybody talks sooner or later, even if it's an innocent slip."

Her head shifted to lean to the opposite side, eyes roaming up and down Lorelei's face and neck, voice transforming yet again to dispassionate wondering. "Or maybe he knows you don't have much to say. Maybe once he'd made you into what he really wanted, he had nothing more to give you, nothing more to show you of himself than Jane did."

Lisbon straightened and her gaze met Lorelei's, clear and unflinching, and Jane knew she was going in for the kill direct.

"It must be hard. Finally having to face the fact that you were never more than a _cheap substitute_."

Lorelei's eyes filled with hot and bitter tears even as they narrowed in hatred. Her jaw clenched as she swallowed convulsively, and she flinched under Lisbon's indifferent observation.

"Obviously, you're upset. I think that's enough for today."

She pushed back from the table and stood, the other woman's malevolent glare rising to with her, her body trembling with the effort to not give the satisfaction of them seeing her shatter. Just before turning away from her, Lisbon leaned forward, palms planted on the table.

"See you next time, Lorelei." She said it lightly, but the taunt was undeniable. "Jane."

His name was spoken with every expectation of his knowing what she wanted and being right there to give or do it for her. As Lorelei erupted in rage, he rose immediately from his chair and headed for the door. The lock gave just as he pulled at the handle. Holding it open for her, he turned to look at Lisbon as she moved toward him, eyes all for her and nothing for the maddened woman behind her.

"You bitch," Lorelei literally spat. "Stinking, self-righteous, sanctimonious whore! You think he would want you? That you could possibly give him what I've given him?"

As Lisbon walked past him, Jane's hand lifted to her back and centered just below her shoulder blades. Turning to follow her through the door, his touched moved up and down in a caress. Lorelei's voice rose to a shriek, and her guards calmly stepped to the cell's threshold, a silent warning to keep the prisoner in her place as her fury spilled out the door.

"You're _nothing_ to him! He loves _me_! He saved _me_! Rescued _me_! Made _me_ his and his alone. I didn't have to sell myself anymore—I gave myself _for_ him and _to_ him. For his cause, for the greater good. He sanctified _me_. You think he would do that for _you_? He _hates_ you! _Loathes_ you! You make him _sick_! He would sooner—"

As the clear, sound-proof door swung shut, cutting off her screams, the steel door opened, giving them a clean exit. A violent vibration built behind them, and he knew Lorelei was pounding against her prison walls, enraged and railing against her fear and impotence.

The door to the observation room opened, and Jane's hand slid down and away from Lisbon, not breaking touch until the last possible second. An irate Dr. Mann opened his mouth to speak, but Lisbon cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"I know what you're going to say, Doctor, by I didn't feel like coddling her psyche today. Speaking of that, we'll be setting the schedule from now on. We'll try to give you a heads up before we come. And I'll need all of your notes from your sessions with her."

Mann's protest died on his lips at her withering glare. Jane dug his fists into his suit pockets and looked down, pressing his lips together against the grin that threatened, his eyebrows cresting in suppressed glee at Lisbon's dangerous, throaty tone.

"Let's get something straight: she's only here because the FBI screwed up so royally. She's not your patient, she's our prisoner. She's not here for treatment. She's in custody to answer questions and give information, and _your_ job is to facilitate the process. If you have a problem with that, we can make other arrangements."

She looked at him pointedly, and he drew back, shrugging ruefully in acquiescence. She strode past him, Jane following immediately behind. As they exited the building, he leaned down and murmured in her ear, "Sorry, Lisbon, but I think you might have just burned that bridge."

She looked up at him, eyes smiling. "We both know it never would've have lasted."

The jest caught him by surprise, and he laughed, rumbling and rusty, trotting to the driver's side of the SUV and pulling the door open to usher her into her seat. He moved around the front of the vehicle and hoisted himself into the passenger seat, buckling in before she could remind him.

Silence being the order lately when they rode together, it didn't bother her that there was no conversation once they hit the highway. But _this_ did. She knew Jane watched her often while she drove, gauging how affected she was by something or deciding the best way to approach her on a difficult subject. But it was always covert—eyes slanted to the side or nearly closed in feigned sleep. Now he was facing her straight on, the way she had faced him earlier, his eyes fixed on her with an amused stare. Her forehead creased into a scowl, and she bit out an exasperated, "What?"

He smiled happily and replied, "Just thinking how glad I am that we're on the same side."

"Yeah, well. Remember that from now on."

"Yes, ma'am." Same stupid smile on his face.

"And no going off by yourself—"

"Whatever you say."

"—no back-up, nobody there if you get into trouble—"

"Never again."

"—and you do, you know. Get into trouble. Often."

"No argument there."

"—and who's always gotta come and get you out, clean up your mess—"

"And don't think I don't appreciate it."

"Well . . . good . . . " She stopped, seemingly run out of steam, but then another stipulation was added. "And no more Vegas."

"Okay." He knew her meaning was more than just the literal.

"I mean it, Jane. No more."

"Not without you to spot me."

"I think I'm done contributing to your delinquency."

"I can make it worth your while."

She shot him a warning glare then turned back to face the road, swallowing hard.

"Come on, Lisbon. It'd be fun. You, me, twenty-one. What can it hurt?"

She sighed heavily. Surely he knew the many answers to that question. "You're an idiot. If nothing else, I'm sure the locals have our descriptions."

"So what if they do?"

"Easy for you." She looked at him with pleading in her eyes. "I'll eventually have to work with those people again." She faced front, voice serious and sensible, her big sister voice on. "No. We'll lay low for a while. Play it safe."

"Oh, come on. Where's the fun in that?"

She rolled her eyes and let her head fall sideways to thunk against her window.

He knew the teasing might have been too close too soon and let it be, pleased that the silence that fell was around rather than between them. He was content to let it remain so until they pulled into the bureau lot, Lisbon wheeling into a parking space. Suddenly aware that they would soon be in more public surroundings, ears and eyes alert around them, surrounded by pitiless glass, and wanting to be certain before he took another step back into what was once again finally becoming comfortable familiarity, his left hand reached for her right where it curled around the top of the gear shift, closing over it and holding it in place. Her eyes rested on their joined hands then slowly lifted to his. She answered his tentative look with a smile of encouragement.

"Are we all right?" he asked quietly.

"You mean can we go back. To the way we were before."

It wasn't exactly what he meant, but it was all the present could afford. Her gaze dropped back to their hands before she answered.

"A lot's happened, Jane. Things . . . are different."

Resigned to his having no reasonable expectation of any better response from her than that, he swallowed and made to give up his hold on her. But as his hand slid away, her wristed rotated, thumb twisting up and over to curl around his fingers.

"But things have happened before. Things have changed, and we're still here." She looked into his eyes again, this time with warm affection. "Maybe we can just pick up the good pieces and move forward?"

He realized he was smiling back. He turned and squinted out the passenger side window, rolling his head back and forth slowly. "I guess so," he drawled as if he were doing her a favor. Her eyes narrowed at him in response.

"You really are despicable."

He threw back his head and laughed out loud at that then looked at her with a grin so totally engulfing his face that his eyes nearly disappeared in the crinkles. His palm slid to fully join hers, fingers automatically threading together. He gave their clasp one shake and raised it to plant a quick kiss on the back of her hand before releasing it. They exited the vehicle on their respective sides and drifted back together as they walked to the building, his hand reflexively lifting to rest at her back as they headed inside.

Moving through the security gate forced them into single file and his hand lowered to his side, finding its way into his jacket pocket as did his other. Once inside the full elevator, standing side-by-side, his eyes slid sideways to Lisbon. After a moment, feeling his covert gaze on her, her eyes moved in the same way to him, mirroring his expression down to the self-satisfied, secret smile. He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet and back in approval, and her smile deepened in spite of her attempt to conceal it.

Jane _did_ approve, and he _was_ satisfied. His bond to Lisbon—and with her this second chance at life granted to him—had been bent but not broken. His mind began to race ahead. There were things to do. They had a mole to ferret out and new strategies to develop. And Lisbon would need his protection now more than ever.

He didn't regret Vegas or the time he had spent there. He had taken a gamble, and while the jackpot had eluded him, he had experienced a win of sorts. One thing he would have done differently if he could, but the act itself was in the past. As was the faked breakdown and the long absence. It was a game he could run only once, a play he would never be able to make again. His relief was palpable and sweet.

The hunt was still on, but he would never have to follow it alone—not until the final length, nothing between him and his quarry, nothing of value to be lost. Lisbon had called him "partner" in the little church, giving the name to what had long been the truth, the fire they had passed through rendering it inviolate. The fine cord that bound them to one another—for he was positive that Lisbon, too, felt its pull—was of sterner stuff than even he could break.

The elevator doors opened on their floor, and they stepped out in sync. As they neared her office, they turned to each other and simultaneously voiced the same invitation.

"Tea?"

Without even a nod of confirmation, she pulled at her door as he stepped to the break room, each knowing the other's direction as surely as they knew where they would meet.

**END**


End file.
